


Peter Parker, Evil Incarnate

by bloodrunsred



Category: Deadpool - All Media Types, Spider-Man - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Adult Peter Parker, Angst and Feels, Angst with a Happy Ending, Assumptions, Attempted Murder, First Kiss, Homophobic Language, Hurt Peter Parker, Hurt/Comfort, Identity Issues, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Insecure Wade Wilson, Kidnapping, M/M, Mental Anguish, My First Spideypool Fic, Oblivious Wade Wilson, POV Peter Parker, POV Wade Wilson, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Peter is a Little Shit, Protective Peter Parker, Schizophrenic Wade Wilson, Secret Identity, Secret Identity Fail, Wade Wilson Breaking the Fourth Wall, Wade Wilson Needs A Hug
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-28
Updated: 2020-03-12
Packaged: 2020-03-20 13:14:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 17
Words: 44,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18993361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bloodrunsred/pseuds/bloodrunsred
Summary: Deadpool had shot Peter Parker, C.E.O of Parker Industries, in the face.At the time it had seemed like a great idea but, with the guy in hospital and Spidey not answering his calls, he’s beginning to think he’s made a mistake.





	1. why don’t you do right

**Author's Note:**

> my first fic for one of my favourite ships! this right here is a trigger warning; first two sections are fine, last is a bit gruesome! the major death tag is for Deadpool comitting suicide, and i promise this will get fluffier/happier (maybe).

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Why don’t you do right, like some other men do?”

If there’s anything Wade hates more than a regular, boring bad-guy, it’s a smart,  _rich_ bad-guy. 

The kind that can get away with the worst shit because of their name, who can throw money at a judge and have all charges wiped away. The kind of guy who has a company dedicated to science, with no questions asked about how they get their results. Luckily—or, un-luckily for Parker—Wade is one curious son-of-a-gun, and he’s pretty damn good at poking around places he shouldn’t be.

So he’s been noticing a lot of discrepancies in the Parker Industries budget; extra money going into the development projects, with nothing to show for it, a pretty little burner phone bought by the guy with cash, and a comment made by said guy during a press conference.

 _”So, Mr Parker, there have been rumours of mutants hired by your company—what is your policy on hiring mutants? Are there any ‘super-humans’ as such, working in your company?”_ The reporter had asked, the camera zooming in to settle on the man’s (admittedly handsome) face. 

His lips pursed, like there was a very good answer he didn’t want to say, he had only said: “ _Well, all kinds of mutants are welcome in my company. Super-human or not, as long as they get the job done.”_ He finished off his statement with a sweet, winning smile, and no-one saw what Wade did.

No rich company hires mutants without a dent in their customer lists; it’s suicide, to admit to hiring the _dangerous_ , or _monstrous_ , or _terrible_ mutants. Sometimes it's bigots jumping on any excuse to not hire someone different, and other times it's just business, no matter who they reject, or refuse to acknowledge. The problem with Parker Industries is that nothing changed at all—their lines remained flat across the board, jumping in some areas.

Some people might argue that it's because times are changing, because people don't mind mutants anymore, but Wade knows that that's bullshit. And, when he checked some of Parker's sponsors? The name Osborn raised flags, and there were quite a few large, anonymous donations that never were accounted for in any areas or departments.

And he never actually answered the question, either—he almost did, but a man with something to hide has either a crippling Pornhub addiction, or is profiting off of mutants through experimentation. Parker looks like he's never touched a computer for anything other than science in his life, so that's out and experimentation is in! Whoop! Except, not really, because the E-word makes his trigger finger itch.

_**Everything makes your trigger finger itchy, that’s why you shoot so many people. Idiot.**_

"White, you're such a buzzkill!" Wade slashes his hand around by his head, like he's trying to murder a particularly vicious bee. "I'm clearly going for some clear, smooth exposition here, you dumbass!"

Anyway...

 _Yeah_ , Wade has done his research, and he's positive that Peter Parker is bad news. All he has to do now is tell Spidey—his absolute best-friend in the entire world, aside from Logan and Yukio, and Death—so they can go all in, guns blazing, and look totally badass while kicking Parker in his cute, dumb, evil face. And then Spider-Man will take off his mask, and be super, duper hot, and they'll make out, and...

_Is he for real? White, tell me he doesn't actually think that's going to happen._

_**You're crazier than us if you think that's going to happen, dickwad.**_

"Shut up, you guys," Wade pouts, dangling his legs over the edge of the roof. He kicks his feet, and makes sure to keep a tight hold on his file of evidence, so Spidey won't give him that familiar stare of disapproval. "I don't have to listen to you!"

_We're literally inside your head. You don't have a choice, like, at all._

"I could always blow you out of my brain, my dear Yellow!" Wade says, his fingers scrabbling with his thigh-holster. "Whaddaya going to do then, huh?"

 _ **Shouldn't you message Spidey before waiting for him?**_ White makes an excellent point, his interjection pushing thoughts of Spider-Man through Wade's brain. He's not complaining; not at all, and neither are the boxes. They love Spidey as much as he does, they're just pessimistic assholes who like to watch him suffer. 

 _Spidey's not that hot,_ Yellow says, and Wade almost drops his evidence.

 _ **Take that back!**_ White shouts by Wade's ear, and he almost takes a nose-dive off the building from fright. He fumbles for his phone, hushing the boxes with every spare breath as they bicker. Spidey always knows how to make them quiet, with his pretty, artificial voice and sexy, commanding presence. He types out a quick message with one thumb, his other hand busy peeling his mask up to rest on the bridge of his nose.

**hey spidy bby i hav sum kool evidence stuff 4 u, cum 2 normal roof <333**

His legs are still kicking back and forth, not unlike a child who's been made to sit still by their mother. He's antsy, there's no denying that; his instincts, and a life-time of experience demand that he go in alone, and kill the bastard where he sits. The quieter, gentler voice that sounds like Spider-Man, asks that he sit still so that they can come up with a plan that doesn't involve killing.

There's a soft  _thwip_ that tells Wade it's too late to back out now, because Spider-Man doesn't appreciate not being told things about what's going on inside his turf. He sits still, his back straight, even as his legs kick in, and out, in, and out. He hasn't dealt with mutant experimentation in so long, what with his and Spidey's taking down of petty criminals, and over-the-top animal-themed baddies, and it's frustrating. He's a doer, not a thinker, and he hates that the boxes are agitated as well. Their yapping is clouding his already crappy mind.

"Deadpool?" Spidey's tone is soft, and Deadpool briefly spares a moment to wonder what his voice sounds like when he's  _not_ scrambling it up. "I got your message—and you're lucky I was already out during my lunch-break, by the way—and I wanted to see what you had for me." 

Wade is almost trembling with barely-contained anger at the thought of what Parker is doing under everyone's noses, and he doesn't think that the shivers travelling through his papers can be explained away by the breeze. He begins talking, his voice falsely high and light. "Peter Parker—ooh, alliteration buddies!—is the CEO of Parker Industries, and has some pretty shady dealings going on in the dark. Get it, shady and dark? Anyway, none of my informants know where the money is coming from or where it's going, and the man owns a burner phone!"

Spidey moves to sit beside him, legs crossed like a grade-school child, the white eyes of his mask squinted. Deadpool shifts so he can see what Spidey sees; a few sticky notes with doodles of Parker being made into a shish kebab, one that says  _petey pie sux,_ and another that's been placed directly on top of the man's photo, saying  _Peter Parker, Evil Incarnate._ There's a swirly little arrow that points to the photo, that has a scribbled moustache and uni-brow.

The rest of it is boring; financial statements, purchases, what they're working on in the different departments, blah, blah, blah.

It's some fine work, if he does say so himself. Spidey doesn't seem to think so, because he lets out a long, deep sigh, that seems to go on forever. “Deadpool,” he finally says. “I think a lot of this is kind of circumstantial, you know?”

”But,” Wade splutters, his head almost connecting with Spidey’s chin as he flies to sit upright. “He has a burner phone!”

Spider-Man fixes him with a flat look; or, at least, Wade is getting that vibe from him. His mask really isn’t that expressive, if he’s being honest with himself. His mask is better, hands down. “Deadpool, I own a burner phone. That doesn’t make me evil.”

”We still need to investigate!” Wade’s heart is steadily sinking. Why won’t Spider-Man trust him on this? “You could help me, and then-“

Spider-Man drums his fingers against his ankles, and cuts him off. He doesn't look up at Wade, and almost shrinks down, making him look tiny from where Wade is sitting. "Look, I trust you, right? But I know Peter, and I think you're off the mark here. Can you let it go? For me?" He pulls a hand up, and scratches the back of his neck, in an action that Wade recognises as embarrassed. "How did you even think to look into all of this anyway?"

"A client hired me to check." Wade says, his voice clipped and short. "He said he thought something big was going on, and I think he's right. He seems legit, even with his dumb, sketchy trench coat, and his ugly bowl-cut."

"Who--"

Spider-Man cuts himself short and doesn't say anything for a long, tense moment. They're at an odds, now—normally, Wade gives in to his whims pretty easily. As much as he loves being a free-agent, he loves how the inflection in Spider-Man's voice changes when he needs to be in charge, and the trust he has in Wade to let him do things with a less violent approach. But this is personal. Spider-Man knows that, because Wade has told him the bare bones of his sob story before.  

"I'll look into it on the down-low," he says, his voice still gentle and calm. "Can I please trust you to stay out of it?"

Wade doesn't like to lie. It can be funny, sometimes, to see people react to rumours and whispers, but he's always teetered on the edge of brutally honest. He knows Spider-Man, though, maybe even better than the Avengers know him, and he won't let it rest if he knows Wade is still going to go and look into this more. He stands, rolling his mask down, and offers his hand to the other, shorter man.

With a handshake that's just a little too firm, he lies: "You know me, baby boy! I can't say no to you."

 ** _This is going to go badly,_**  White says, and Yellow just nods.

 

* * *

 

Lying to Spidey fucking _sucks_.

But it's absolutely necessary if he's been dragged into believing Parker's lies, and is going to let him get away with it all. He had, during an unwelcome visit to Tony Stark, borrowed (stolen) some very fancy tech, and found a secret room thing underground. He loves the x-ray thing with his whole heart, but he had dropped it off of the roof by accident. But it's not like he could go to Spidey with that, because then he'd just bitch about being lied to. Which, fair enough, but it's _annoying_.

He misses working on cases with someone, and his baby boy is the only person who's been able to tolerate his presence in years. It's just too bad he's in a criminal's pocket, the bitter part of his brain spits. The boxes are very against him and this solo mission; not because they're worried about his health, of course, but because they're worried about Spidey.

 _You're going to ruin the best thing that's ever happened to us!_ Yellow whines, effectively distracting Wade from where he's staking out the entrance to Parker Industries.

"You're the one that said he wasn't that hot," Wade reminds him. "So be quiet or help me."

_That was an obvious lie! Just give this up, or I'm going to kill us, I swear._

"Not if I kill us first," Wade sing-songs. It doesn't make Yellow completely quiet, but his grumbling gets quieter, so he can actually concentrate on the mission. His only binoculars are Hello-Kitty themed, and don't really work properly, so he's stuck with a sniper lens. And, maybe he shouldn't trust himself to not pull the trigger, but all he wants to do is watch for a while.

His trigger finger twitches, and he places it flat against the side of the gun. Five-to-six on Wednesday's—usually his and Spidey's patrol days, he's reminded glumly—he leaves, earlier than normal. Right on schedule, the glass revolving door spins, and Parker leaves. 

He's  _hot._ Wade's noticed before, sure he has, but interviews and modelling-shoots for magazines are almost never reflective of how someone looks day-to-day. But he's fucking gorgeous, with pretty golden skin, and barely-styled hair, and if he weren't scum of the Earth, Wade would be on his hands and knees for him. How has he never heard of him before this whole quest for the truth? Even his suit it tailored, clinging beautifully to his ass, that could give Spidey's a run for it's money.

If he weren't mentally married to Spider-Man and, well, misplaced revenge, the things he would  _do_ to him...

 _ **As if he'd ever willingly go near your ugly mug,**_ White sounds too smug for his own good, jumping at the opening. 

"We share the same body," Wade hisses, eye glued to the scope of the gun. 

 _ **You're the ugly one,**_ White says,  _ **I happen to look like Ryan Reynolds, thank you very much.**_

 _I look like a young Leonardo DiCaprio,_ Yellow adds unhelpfully.  _I don't know why, but it gets me all the ladies._

"What ladies-?"Wade raises his brow in interest, but has little time to say much more before Peter Parker, in all his late-twenties glory, looks up and meets his gaze. "Fuck!" He says, landing flat on his ass and scrambling backwards. "How the—what the fuck?"

He leans back over the edge after a brief pause, almost certain that he's stalking a killer-robot, but there's no-one there. He peers through the gun, swivelling and looking through the crowd like a man possessed. He gives up after five minutes, and knows only three things from this encounter. That's actually a success; it's a lot better than nothing, after all, and he could have been shot in the head by Robot-Parker—and, headache much?—so he's going to count this as a good mission.

Here are the facts:

Uno: Peter Parker has a wicked bod, and a cute face.

Two: He's probably a robot, specifically manufactured to be hot and control this mutant exploitation ring.

Trois: He can disappear into thin air like it's nothing. Wade's been trained, heavily so, to spot an invisible enemy. The fact that he can vanish like that? It's spooky. Like he's a ghost or something.

"Hey, Deadpool." Spider-Man says from behind him, and he freezes. Speaking of spooky. Spidey's voice is tight with something Wade can't identify, and there's this feeling like he's going to snap. He doesn't know if it's the lying, or the fact he has a gun in his hands, but the spandex-clad hero is clearly pissed at him. "I didn't think you were the type to bird-watch."

"Oh!" Wade laughs an ugly, obnoxious laugh, pushing his gun away like it would stop Spider-Man from noticing it. "Oh, you clearly don't know me at all, Spidey-babe, I love all the yellow tweetie-birds, all the blue twitter-birds, the-"

There's the sound of grinding teeth, and Spidey clenches his fist. His burner phone is in his hand, and Wade's eyes are glued to it. It's a tiny little flip-phone, nothing expensive, but he has it in his hand. A cold wave of realisation hits Wade, the burn of icy betrayal stinging at all of his open wounds. The boxes are screeching in his ears, warning him against what he's planning to do, but Wade hates traitors, and he hates sneaks. He's not sure if he's mad at Spidey or Parker, but he's mad at someone, and that never turns out well.

"He called you," he says, the words thick and foreign to his tongue. "You know him—more than professionally, you're  _friends_ with him. You're a mutant, Spidey, how could you defend him, and not even look into it, like you promised me you would?"

Spider-Man rolls his mask up, and Wade doesn't even get distracted by his plush lips, and clear, almost glowing skin. It's testament to his rage that he can't bring himself to be swayed, that he isn't changing tracks immediately to fall even more in love with the hero. And, really, can he even be called a hero if he's letting people get hurt for his friend's sake? "Deadpool, no-" He starts.

"Don't bullshit with me, baby boy!" Wade jabs a finger at him, his headache getting progressively worse. “You're not even looking into this, are you? You don't even care about these people, do you?"

"Deadpool, there's no people!" He puffs his chest out, and meets him head-on, not allowing himself to be cowed, even though Wade is larger and covered in weapons. "I—he's not experimenting on people, he's not anti-mutant, he's not any of that!"

Wade is growling, a low rumble deep in his throat, and he's furious. He doesn't know if he's ever felt more angry, which is why he picks up his gun and throws it off the roof with a yell. "You can't know that!" He yells. "What, are you fucking him? Is that it? You don't want your wittle boyfriend to go to jail? You don't want to believe that he'd cut you open if he knew your identity?" Even the boxes quieten at that.

"You're a fucking idiot, Deadpool!" He sounds choked up, like he's on the verge of crying. "I'm not dating him, you're just wrong! I'm upset that you're here, with a  _gun,_ trying to kill an innocent man!" 

There are a million things he wants to say; _he's not innocent! I didn't try to kill him!_ The words bubble up in his throat, almost choking him. He's very nearly speechless, a bitter taste coating his tongue, and he considers what to say carefully. Spider-Man is just staring at him, the shiny eyes of his mask unblinking, like he's trying to see a better man, instead of the monster Wade Wilson is.

He could say anything and, instead, he just turns and jumps off the roof.

 

* * *

 

Later, he's drunk. He's so fucking drunk, and he has half-a-dozen bottles with him to keep his healing factor from knocking it out of his system.

Spider-Man doesn't trust him. He yelled at Spidey, he ruined his friendship over his own issues, just like normal. And now, there's no conclusive, hard evidence that he's right, and Spidey yelled back at him.

He's visiting Peter's apartment; there's probably going to be something there that proves he's not wrong, something he can show to Spidey so he's not mad at him anymore. He doesn't know if Parker would be there—he doesn't think so, because most billionaires spend nights at weird sex-parties, right?—but he doesn't really care either way. The guy deserves a hard punch to the face, so all his perfect, gleaming teeth get knocked out.

"The—he prob'ly stole his teef fro' the mut'nts," he slurs to the doorman, who's staring at his sleek, black gun, that he's waving around wildly. "He stol' em!" White and Yellow are blissfully silent; or maybe he just can’t hear them over the blood pounding in his brain. 

"S-sir, you can't have that in here," he sounds braver than he looks, though the urge to back away and beg for his life is crawling all over his face. "You—you have to leave." Wade doesn't want to hurt him; he's just an innocent, useless sap, so he just shoulders past him. Parker lives on the fifth floor, in a huge, swanky, hotel-esque apartment that Wade's only seen bits of through a window.

He takes the elevator, pulling another bottle from his belt as the lights that signify what floor it is flicker. He stumbles out when the elevator dings, down the hallway to find door number twenty-two.

After a bit of squinting, and a few more chugs from the bottle in hand, he finds it, and knocks none-too-gently with the hand holding his gun. There's no answer, and he leans back, ready to put his foot (or entire body) through the thick would, when it unlocks with a soft click. It's pulled open, and Peter Parker steps out, his hair fluffy, and his eyes wide. He opens his mouth, forehead creased in concern, but all Deadpool can see is his perfect face splitting open under his fist.

"Deadpool?" His voice is sleepy, a yawn playing around the edges of his words. "Are you okay? Do you need-"

He doesn't get anything more out, because Deadpool's gun has suddenly found itself a home, pressed into the younger man's cheek. Peter steps back, arms up, and he opens his mouth like he has something more to say. "Shh," Deadpool says. "You—you're a v-very, verryyy bad dude, Petey. Verrryyy bad."

Like fireworks going off in his brain, there's the image of Parker, with his head blown off, and blood staining his carpet, just like what happened to Wade in Weapon-X. That sounds like a great idea, like really good revenge for everything that men like Peter have ever done to him. Peter's eyes look too wide and innocent, and Wade wants to cut them from his fucking body.

 _Spidey is going to be so mad at us!_ Yellow finally speaks up, sounding near hysterical.  _White, make him stop it!_

"Deadpool, we can talk about this-"

_BANG!_

Peter's face changes quickly, from calm and soothing to pained and frightened, half his cheek missing, blood pooling on the ground where he's fallen back. His ear is mangled as well, and blood is rising in his throat; Deadpool can tell from the laboured breathing, the spluttering sound as he tries to draw in air, only to inhale chunks of flesh and blood. He stares at the ceiling, choking to death as tears flow freely down his cheeks—the salty water no doubt stinging the gaping hole in his jaw.

"Deadpool," he manages to choke out. "D-deadpool-"

Bile rises in Wade's throat, and he turns the gun on himself just as sirens tear through the air. It's still, and quiet, save for Peter's laboured breaths and gargling. He spots a neighbour, her face white as she holds her hand to her mouth, and presses his gun deeper into his temple. 

_BANG!_

His hands aren't steady, and his aim isn't perfect, so it takes a moment for him to bleed out; all the while, the woman's screams mingle with Peter's dying breaths, creating a symphony of pain and suffering that will follow him to hell before he comes back again.


	2. pulled

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You got me pulled in a new direction... And I think I like it. I think I like it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i know i'm straying from the og storyline of wade travelling through the underworld to collect peter's soul, but i decided to take some artistic liberties, and really try and make this story my own instead of just repeating another person's work!
> 
> also: i was blown away by the response to the first chapter! i honestly hadn't expected so many people to enjoy it, and i'm so glad people are interested in seeing where i take this!! thanks guys <3
> 
> check out my [tumblr](https://xbloodrunsredx.tumblr.com/)

“Hey, uh, Spidey? I guess you’ve seen the news, and I know you’re pissed, and I totally get that—just, please let me explain and apologise.”

 _"I'm sorry, you're trying to leave a voicemail in a full inbox. Please wait, and try again in a few hours."_ The cheery, automated woman informs him.

“Fuck!” He yanks his mask off his head, bunching the leather—tacky with blood—in his hands before throwing it across the room. He’s pacing as he tries to come op with a plan of action; not a plan of attack, because he’s never had more to lose. Not when he had Vanessa (who could only see him for what he used to be), or a healthy body (that he never treated right), or was apart of Special Forces (who had beliefs he had never subscribed to). He’d lost those, with his own shitty behaviour, and they had never _stung_ quite like this.

He had gotten comfortable, he realises; the years of working with Spidey, being the good-guy instead of just another lowlife had gotten to him. Before, when he couldn't trust anyone to understand or treat him decently. Before, when he was running from a life-time of abuse, finding comfort in his weapons and death-count

He refreshes his messages to Spider-Man, praying that there’s a reply he just hadn’t seen before, but there’s nothing.

There’s nothing waiting for him.

He scrolls through them anyway. 

**hey bby pls cal me???**

**im sorry pls the boxes are 2**

**let me say sorry in person pls, ill b at our roof 2nite!!!**

**im v woried bby boy pls msg me back even if its just 2 tell me 2 kms pls**

Wade throws his phone onto his couch, dropping to a crouch and burying his face in his hands. He had fucked up. He had fucked up so hard, and he had almost killed one of Spidey’s friends. He normally doesn't care if he kills or maims bad people, but all he can think of is how sweet and stupidly soft Parker had looked and sounded. And, yeah, yeah, appearances can be deceiving, but that's not even why he shot the guy.

He had been  _jealous._ He had been  _angry._ He had been  _drunk._

He had ruined a life on a whim. At least the guy is alive, he thinks, and at least he hadn't killed anyone when he'd escaped from the morgue. The TV in the corner crackles, demanding his attention, and he groans like an animal at what's on.

_“-Late last night, mercenary Deadpool broke into an apartment complex and shot Peter Parker, CEO of Parker industries, before turning the gun on himself. Mr Parker, however, has been reported to be alive, and is currently receiving treatment for a gunshot wound to the face-”_

He switches channel.

_"-Though at this time it is unsure if Peter Parker will survive his injuries, my informant has confirmed that doctors are hopeful-"_

Click.

_”-ter Parker has been taken to Mercy Hospital, until which point, my source tells me, he’ll be transferred to a different facility-“_

 Click.

 _"-The hospital is unavailable for comment, but there has been a video submission--parents, you should probably send your children out of the room for this-"_  

Wade doesn't change the channel. He doesn't, because he's seen blood before, but this video submission is disgusting. It's been filmed by a shaky phone, and it's Parker; eyes glassy, blood dripping down his face onto his stretcher, and his wound on full display. His mouth is parted, and his skin is turning a light blue. Wade lets out a howl not unlike that of a wounded dog, and shoots his TV.

Once.

_BANG!_

Twice.

_BANG!_

Three times, until his TV has perfect, smoking holes that will stop him from seeing what he had done.

_BANG!_

Spidey's morals have caught on like the flu; guilt crawls through Wade's system like rats through a sewer. Gunshot wounds are tricky; he had dealt with a handful of them before being discharged and gaining his powers, and each one had left him with a warped scar from where chunks had flesh had been sent flying, and how far his skin had split each time. And, fuck, he had torn a hole through the man’s _cheek_. It’ll be a miracle if he can breathe without assistance after what Wade did to him, and he's so young. He's so much smaller than Wade, and he didn't think to double-check his suspicions. He doesn't think he's wrong—no, Parker is gross—but he should have checked. He shouldn't have just gone in.

He had just shot him.

He never really did stop being a monster, did he?

His bottles had been taken by the officers for evidence, and even though he feels sick about ever drinking again, he's desperate for the same kind of relief that he had last night.

 _**The same relief you felt shooting him?**_ White hisses. The boxes are furious that he didn't listen to them, and that Spidey isn't returning their calls, or even checking his voicemail.  _ **You ruined this for us, asshole.**_

"I'll make it up to him!" He's pacing, now, trying to figure out how to salvage this bloody mess of a situation. "I just need—I need-"

 _What you need is to make it up to Petey-Pie,_ Yellow cooes, voice sugary sweet.  _Should be easy, after trying to murder him in cold blood._

"I don't know what to do," Wade moans, running a hand down his face "normally people I kill stay dead, and I don't feel bad about it!"

 _ **You feel bad because you've turned him into another you,**_ White says,  _ **just another scarred bastard with a need for revenge. You're his Francis, Wadey.**_

 "Fuck!" That's possibly the one thing Wade has been trying to avoid, out of his admittedly meagre amount of respect for himself. He has to make this better; maybe befriending the guy (yes, the one he shot) will open another avenue he hadn't considered before. 

 _Does he realise that Petey-Pie will want literally nothing to do with him?_ Yellow mock-whispers to White.

 ** _I just miss Spidey..._** White whimpers.

 _Maybe Baby-Boy will be at the hospital too,_ Yellow hums, almost thoughtfully.  _Friends visit friends there, right?_

Wade doesn't know; none of his friends have ever visited the hospital for him--hell, he can't remember the last time he went to one without kicking and screaming the whole way there. He has no love for the medical profession, which would be a problem if he didn't have a healing factor.

"Shut up, idiots, we're going to the hospital." Wade says, his eyes still trained on his smoking TV. "Which one did he go to again?"

 

* * *

 

Peter wakes up to the beeping of a heart monitor. It’s not strong or consistent; it’s weak and thready, and getting faster and faster as his severity of his situation rams into him with all the strength of a rampaging Kingpin.

Deadpool—his apartment—a burning pain in his face—

His fingers fly to his cheek, meeting a hard bandage that wrapped around the rest of his head as well. He tugs at his IV, the medicine likely contributing to him feeling woozy and light-headed, until he can’t help but feel like he is going insane. "No," he tries to say, but his tongue is too heavy to move, his cheek screaming in agony as he tries to force his mouth open. All that comes out is a groan, bubbling up from the bottom of his dry throat to pour through his closed mouth. 

His head is elevated, slightly, and he has a tube in his nose. The air is crisp and stings his nostrils with every inhale, leaving the all-too familiar smell of disinfectant behind. It's not like any of the other times he's woken up, in some villain's basement, a needle pumping poison into his veins while he's dissected as though he were a real spider. 

He feels the top of his head, his fingers meeting with greasy hair. 

No mask.

No, that's right—he was shot as Peter. Not as Spider-Man, but as Peter. It's an odd thought; as a rich man, he's always been at risk, with death threats, attempted muggings, the works. But he's never felt unsafe before, he's never truly been in harm's way with his powers. The real danger in his life stems from what he does as Spider-Man, and he's never crossed paths with any of his colleagues of villains without his mask firmly on his head.

So why had Deadpool come?

He tries to remember, but his head is fuzzy. His senses are through the roof, with his specially designed glasses missing from his face, and without access to any headphones that might have distracted him from the nurse drinking coffee down the hall. Or from the elderly man taking his last breaths on the opposite end of the building, a little girl crying for her mother five rooms down. His left ear hurts, slightly, ringing with a bell he's sure doesn't exit. He can hear a doctor with his right ear, though-

"Mr Parker?" 

Peter's eyes fly open, his breath catching in his throat. His spidey-sense is going haywire with the onslaught of information, and the stiff numbness of his cheek. The doctor is there, by his bed, a clipboard in hand and a friendly smile on his face. A nurse is standing behind him, and Peter can smell the coffee on her tongue. God, where's his dampening spider-suit when he needs it?

He can't talk, but he tries to convey just how terrified he is with his eyes. The doctor seems to understand, or is at least satisfied with his attention, because he moves to sit on one of the chairs that Peter hadn't noticed were by his bed until that very moment. At his moving, the nurse takes that as her cue. She bustles into the room, fiddling with his IV, and consulting the chart by his bed.

 "Mr Parker," the doctor demands his attention again. "I know you're a man of science, and I think you'd appreciate me being more direct with this than I usually am. Am I right?" Peter inclines his head as much as he is able, begging to know what's going on, and if he's  _safe._ But, really; when is he ever truly safe? The doctor clears his throat. 

"Doctor Haddern, does he need water?" The nurse nods her head at Peter, who bristles at not being asked himself—whether he can answer or not, he doesn't appreciate being referred to as though he was an animal, or child.

Doctor Haddern just waves her away, his dark eyebrows creased in concern like Peter is about to shatter before his very eyes. "You were shot in the left side of your face, Peter," he says gently, and Peter doesn't miss that he's switched from last name to first name. "You were shot from quite a short distance, and it caused the bullet to tear through your skin and muscle quite viciously, before it went through your earlobe and the nerves there upon exiting."

Oh.

_Oh._

"Oh," he tries to say, but it sounds more like, "Mm."

"If I'm being completely honest with you, Peter, you shouldn't even be awake now. You are healing and adjusting from the surgery quite spectacularly, and you should be able to live the rest of your life with minimal aids. Of course, we will be able to offer you..."

His healing factor, Peter recognises through the haze of fear that's clouding his vision. His healing factor is the only reason he's alive right now, the only reason he isn't out cold on a surgery table as they try to piece him back together. Haddern's voice fades away into nothingness, and he clicks his fingers gently by his left ear. The ringing isn't alleviated, and he feels at the parts not completely covered by gauze.

It's stitched and tender, and he knows he needs to leave soon before his flesh starts healing around the stitches--it's happened before, and it's not an occurrence he wants to repeat.

He tries to talk again, and finds that whatever the nurse had done to his IV has helped his jaw loosen just a bit--though he would eat his arm if his abilities didn't give him an advantage on the journey to recovery. "When can I leave?" He asks, his voice wooden and strained, even to his own ears. "I think—if you've done your tests, doctor—that I'd be more comfortable in my own home."

Haddern blinks, once, then twice. "Peter, you just went through a very traumatic experience. I would feel much more comfortable if I could observe you here for a few days-"

He's cut off by a knocking at the window; the one high up on the wall, high enough that it would take quite the balancing act (or a very tall ladder) to reach it at all. Haddern opens his mouth and stands. Peter's spidey-sense flares once more, and that's all the warning he gets before the glass is shattered by an expensive-looking, shiny, and very recognisable katana.

 

* * *

 

It had taken a lot more effort than Wade was really happy exerting, to find Peter Parker.

With a phone that took way too long to connect to anything, and with no data to his name, Wade had been forced to ask around. Word of mouth, and all that. It's great! Wade's a people person, through and through, but people never did seem to be in the mood to talk to him. Which, honestly, is kind of rude. He's super nice to people, most of the time, and the fact that they don't even show him the same courtesy is just icky.

Though, to be fair, it isn't that surprising no-one will talk about Parker; the man had been shot in the face, after all. Who would want to tell a man in a mask, with two swords strapped to his back and various other weapons littering his body in their holsters. It could be a potential lawsuit against them, and a dead man's blood on their hands. Thankfully, every mouse squeals if they're poked in the right place. He didn't even have to fully unsheathe his katanas before a ratty, little reporter gave the guy up. 

He took a few (eleven) guesses on the exact room. He would be in one of the recovery suites after his surgery, and it would be a nice one because the guy was absolutely loaded, and impressing him could earn a few sizeable donations. They would be tricked out of him, of course, while he was still on pain medication. Wade tries very, very hard not to imagine how fucking high the guy is.

He's a little jealous; hospitals always have good shit, that's just common sense.

He's shuffling on the edge of the building, arms and legs splayed like he's a starfish--he's already fallen three times, but there's a nifty little tree that helps him climb right back up, broken femur or no. 

He knocks on the window and, when no-one answers (how predictable), he feels free to launch Bea through, like she's a prettier version of Captain Marvel.

_Now that was one hot lady--think she'd have us if we begged on our hands and knees?_

"Shut up!" Wade hisses, before wriggling through the tiny window. If this room turned out to be a bust, he would just deal with security in his own special way.

 _ **Idiot, there's a reason we're doing the window thing!**_ White yells in his ear. Wade curses as broken glass shards dig into his stomach, and mentally flips him off.  _ **It's so Spidey, love of our life, doesn't break his no-killing rule and snap our spines!**_

”Kinky,” Wade says, finally crashing to the sparkling, clean floor of the hospital room. It smells like it’s been recently cleaned, and Wade kind of wants to dump a lot of food and a few limbs on the ground. Just as a ‘F-U!’ to doctors. And nurses. And all the HYDRA doctors especially. 

**_He looks weird. Kill him._ **

A doctor is staring at him, from where he is beside a terrified-looking Peter Parker. Is he HYDRA? Wade asks himself before brushing it aside. Not everyone is HYDRA, he knows that. Still, he picks Bea up, making sure she’s not scratched, and waves it in his general direction. He squeaks, his knees pressing together as he quakes. Wade isn’t interested in seeing him piss himself, so he shoos him away; he leaves quickly, his patient left to deal with a murdering psycho alone.

Some kind of doctor, huh. 

He turns to Parker, who has gone paler than the bandage wrapped around his pretty face. Wade smiles—a huge, big smile he won’t be able to see through his mask. 

“Petey-Pie!” Wade greets, louder than he normally would. It’s the nerves, he thinks. Parker flinches and huddles further into himself. Or, as much as he can with his body strapped to a torture table.

_You mean a bed?_

“You’re looking hot as ever!” Wade continues like he wasn’t interrupted at all. And, really, the boxes probably don’t count as an interruption because they’re literally his thoughts, but he wishes they weren’t so annoying all the time. “Really, the bruising on your face brings out the blue in your eyes!” 

His eyes are actually brown, but Wade is in a difficult mood; uncontrollable, and unoriginal flirting. It’s his defence mechanism! You wouldn’t believe the number of times a good blow-job has gotten him out of a sticky situation. And into a slightly different yet preferable sticky situation.

_Can it with the dick jokes, I want to hug Spidey!_

Wade almost does a double take at that. Since when are the boxes interested in literally anything other than sex and Mexican cuisine? The plot-twists are piling up.

”Look,” the kid—Wade is older than him, so he’s a kid—sounds awful, his voice a death-rattle. “I know you think I’m a bad person, and you’ll probably kill me no matter what I say, but...” Oh shit, he’s going to cry. Emotions, fuck Wade hates them. He feels three emotions himself; murder, I-love-Spider-Man, and tacos. Not necessarily in that order, and usually at the same time.

”Look, Peter Piper,” Wade starts, sitting down so he’s not towering over the guy like a creep. “I’m going to prove that you’re a disgusting monster, but I have decided to—another plot-twist, get ready—not kill you!”

Peter doesn’t look as grateful as he had hoped, but his confusion almost makes Wade want to pinch his cheeks like an overbearing aunt at a family reunion. 

**_Bad idea!_ **

_Don’t do it!_

The boxes speak in unison.

“But they’re so cute and pinchable,” he says, in a totally not creepy way. 

“Why aren’t you killing me?” Peter says, eyes boring into Wade’s soul. “It’s not like you haven’t already tried in the last twenty-four hours. Why did you—what changes now?”

Wade hesitates. It’s kind of personal, but he also did shoot the guy, so he kind of owes him an explanation...

”Spider-Man is mad at me,” he lowers his voice like he’s confessing to a priest in church. Peter would make a wonderful priest, he's sure of it, the kind that did everything to go to heaven except for be a decent person. Like the child-abusing ones, the ones that make Wade so, so angry. “I’m going to be honest, I still really kind of want to kill you, but-“

”Get out.” Peter’s mouth is a thin line, his eyes dark and dangerous. He emits the same kind of aura as a particularly dangerous Spider-Man, and Wade can see this man being evil. A fallen angel; Wade can see the appeal, and is about to make it into a sex joke before the words said catch up with him.

”What?” He asks. “Why? I haven’t even tried to kill you yet!”

“Leave me alone,” the heart monitor is beeping frantically, and Wade is positive that someone will be in here any minute to deal with it. “Spider-Man would want you to leave me alone!” His voice cracks. Softer still, he continues. “Please, just go away, and let me be. You tried to kill me with no proof, you put me in hospital because you were drunk and missed my head, and the only reason you’re here is to impress Spider-Man?”

There are a million things he could respond to in that statement, but nothing sounds right. So Wade just gives in easily, caving under the sound of Peter’s heart breaking—seriously, it can’t be healthy for the heart monitor to be beeping that much and so fast—and nods, slightly. 

It’s the least he can do, right?

”I’ll see you around, Peter Parker.” 

He’s gone as quickly as he had come. 

 

* * *

 

Peter calls Harry.

Harry manages to get him discharged with little more than his credit card, and a flash of perfectly whitened teeth, and has his driver take them to Peter’s apartment. The police have probably tidied up everything—it’s a pretty open and shut case anyway—and Peter is tired in his bones. His head is still wrapped, and he’ll get rid of the layers of bandages and stitches as soon as he can. 

They stop outside the building, and fear hits Peter in a dizzying wave.

”Are you okay?” Harry says, his lip curled into a slight pout that betrays how worried he truly is. “I have a place you can stay if you need it.”

He should take the offer. 

“I'll be fine," he smiles at Harry instead, only a slight twitch from his stitched cheek. An artificial taste—like his mouth has been stuffed full of cotton and dirty pennies—is there, along with a tightness that doesn't feel quite right. "Go have your date with rich socialite number four."

Harry doesn't look reassured. It’s truly concerning that he doesn’t even take offense, his gaze just dropping to Peter's cheek like it's the only thing he can see. "I just worry about you, Pete," he says.

"I know," Peter says, stepping back like he's going to go inside, and waving at Harry. 

Harry leaves, after no small amount of hesitation, and Peter ducks into an alleyway.

His spare Spider-Man suit that he keeps webbed to the bottom of a dumpster feels heavier than rock, and guilt weighs him down even more. He can see the Daily Bugle heading now, if they were to spot him like this. 

SPIDER-MAN; HOMELESS SQUATTER IN ABANDONED BUILDINGS.

God, what a life.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for his wounds, i'm having him shot at a bit of an angle, mostly caused by wade's drunkenness while pulling the trigger; it went through his cheek and out the base of his neck by his earlobe, which also now has chunks missing from it.
> 
> kudos and comments!! they inspire me <333


	3. helpless

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Boy, you got me helpless..."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> click [HERE](https://xbloodrunsredx.tumblr.com/) for my tumblr!
> 
> as you might have noticed, i've been trying to post once every two days; i'll try and stick to that as much as i can, but i am rather busy at the moment!

Peter should just tell Deadpool.

He should do a lot of things; he should shower, he should go home, and he should definitely not be pulling stitches out of his face in an abandoned warehouse. To be fair, he's not digging his nails under the thread and tugging—no, he's doing it properly. Or, rather, as properly as he can given his situation. He has rusted scissors and a cracked mirror, a towel spread under him in case his trembling fingers slip.

He's wearing his suit, the mask dropped onto the grimy floor. It gives him some comfort, at least; as Spider-Man, he rolls with the punches. He gets back up after every swing, every hit, and he's constantly on the move. He has always acknowledged the danger of his relatively unorthodox part-time job, and that makes him feel just a little bit stronger as he unwinds the bandages. 

He looks at the mirror, and he doesn't recognise himself.

His left cheek is ruined. That's not him being dramatic, even if he does like a little flair sometimes, because it's just an observation. He's a scientist, after all, and he likes to think he's a damn good one at that. Scientists look at things the way they are, rather than the way they should be, and draw conclusions from that. His cheek is puffy, and he feels along it with his fingers. There's an implant, he can feel it. He can feel his muscles and skin rippling over it, squeezing it tighter and tighter like it's apart of his body, and the urge to cry is a tickle behind his eyes.

He wishes, not for the first time, that his healing factors is like Deadpool's. He cringes away from the thought of the man, but it's hard. His normal-life and spider-life are different; disconnected, and separate from each other. He's still mad, but it's not the same, and it's giving him whiplash. Peter is mad, Spider-Man isn't.

His ability to compartmentalise truly knows no bounds. 

In truth, Deadpool's abilities have never been something Peter is envious of. The first few times he died in front of Peter—Spider-Man, his mind helpfully supplies—he had cried. He had knelt by the body, sobbing, because he let yet another person die instead of just saving them. He had known, of course; the Avengers made sure he knew everything about Deadpool when they started working together. They had wanted him to stay away, and see a monster, but all Peter had seen was another person he could save.

Maybe their personalities impact their powers, Peter thinks and the tears overflow. Water flows through the cracks in his skin, and he feels more like a creek, a bit of landscape, than he does a person.

He and Deadpool... They're alike and different, and there's some other reason why Peter is struggling to hate him, one that he can't place.

Deadpool pushes. He always has, for as long as Peter has known him. He tries limits, strays outside the law, and does everything he can do bend and break rules like they mean nothing to him. He enjoys being reckless and stupid, because he doesn't care if he gets hurt. His body rejects bullets, pushing them back through raw skin, and he comes back mostly unaffected. 

Spider-Man has never been like that. He's studious and stays inside the law; his morals weigh on his mind with every action, and he is an adaptor. Flash pushed him into lockers, and he let him. The spider bit him and he adapted, and Deadpool changed into what he is now while fighting it every step of the way. Peter's body adjusts to bullets and implants, and his skin knots and scars.

He's scarred.

It starts by the corner of his mouth, curling upward at an angle. It almost looks like a spider-web, he thinks with a watery laugh. There's a series of black thread that is pulled tight, and there's patches of skin that doesn't belong. He probably shouldn't have drifted off during the doctor's explanation, and he wonders why he didn't feel pain anywhere else. He still doesn't, so he checks his body for another bandage. 

Nothing.

Nothing.

Nothing.

It's not his skin, and he almost wants to rip it off because of that.

It's a skin graft, and he feels like a patchwork doll—he made one with his Aunt May, a million years ago. He pricked his finger, and had a little misshapen doll to hold onto later. He wonders if this is how Deadpool feels. He's angry, and scared, and hurt, and it all starts and stops on his face. A web of lies and deceit, because Peter Parker was a liar, and he was a bad friend, and that's why he had been shot. _He should tell Deadpool._

But if Deadpool still hates him, and still finds him guilty, then his mask won't save him. Nothing will, and maybe he's a coward—but his reasoning is good enough for him. It's good enough, because hiding is all he knows, and he's always been too good at it for comfort. He doesn't need to give up what he has as Spider-Man, or risk being hunted down no matter where he goes.

He doesn't need to give up on Deadpool yet, because he can still be saved; Peter knows that more than he knows himself now. He did something bad for the right reasons. He can be helped, he can be convinced, but there's a niggling fear that he won't listen to Peter Parker. If he knows, then there's nothing Peter will be able to do to help him, or change his mind.

The light changes, and his scars look even more grotesque. He's never been vain, but he knows what he looks like in the mirror, and that's not him.

It's not him anymore.

His Spider-Man persona settles on his brain, and he can feel his face getting tighter and tighter, so he gets to work; patting his tears away as gently as he can, before trying to wriggle the blade of the scissors under one bit of thread.

_Snip! Snip! Snip!_

He tries to pull it out but, like he had thought it might, it doesn't come easily. It burns, and he's tearing the thin layer of skin that had been forming over the top, and the muscles around it. Tears of a different kind prick at his eyes again, and he gets a better grip with the tips of his fingers before ripping with a little bit more of his strength. It gives way, and he howls with it; the sound bouncing off the floor and walls.

It takes a moment for him to get a good grip on the next thread.

He pulls.

He screams.

 

* * *

 

Wade has shot himself two times since he saw Parker in the hospital.

Just for being an idiot; why would he bring up Spider-Man, the guy's friend, to him? Looking back, it seems almost creepy. Especially if Parker didn't know that Spidey and him hung out a lot, then it sounds like a threat. 'I know your friend. I have swords. Bleh.' Or something like that. 

The first time had been in his apartment, in his special chair—the headrest of which is bloodied to the point of no return. The second time had been in Weasel's bar, when he decided to go and wallow; it hadn't even been on purpose, he had just leaned over wrong while teasing Weasel about his name (because 'Jack Hammer', really?), and his gun had gone off and sent a bullet into his foot. 

The guy is sneaky, he’ll give him that; Wade went home with the idea of keeping tabs on him, only to call the hospital (pretending to be the man's aunt, who turns out to be dead bee-tee-dubs. Which, how had that not come up in his background check? _Something_ reeks of sloppy writing). So, awkward conversations all around. He had called, only to find out that Petey-boy had been discharged. Immediately after Wade had visited him.

 _Visiting is a weak word,_ Yellow says,  _why don't you try 'harassing'?_

That's one hell of a coincidence, if you ask Wade. He is currently and pointedly ignoring Yellow, who has taken quite the shine to Parker since his big speech. Apparently it's not just Spidey's ass that gets his boxes all horny, it's also his morals and backbone.

**_His backbone that goes into one hell of an ass, man._ **

"Dude, be respectful," Wade says aloud, even though there's no-one around to hear him defend Spidey, and he secretly agrees. He's sitting on their roof again, kicking his boots against the bricks, and trying to figure out how to get said Spidey to come around.

 _I still say you should go onto a public street and kill yourself,_ Yellow says,  _or pull out someone else’s eyeballs. He's bound to come running then._

Wade almost considers it, but ends up shaking his head to dislodge the thought entirely. "To kick our ass!" He reminds the box. It would be kinky in the right scenario, but being beaten up would just be another blow to his bruised ego. "He'll be even more upset at that. Why are you trying to give me bad advice?"

 _ **He's desperate for attention,**_ White sounds exasperated,  ** _you've already fucked up so bad, it's not like his suggestion will make Spider-Man think any less of you._**

"We didn't even kill anyone!"

The boxes sigh, and Wade is ten seconds from jumping off the roof. What is he supposed to do? What is he supposed to say? He could skip down for a month or two and wait for things to simmer down, but he's still investigating Parker, and his other safe-houses have been compromised! Mainly because he kept telling random people his address, but still. He can't leave, Spidey obviously doesn't want him to stay, and he's really, really hungry.

_If you make up with Peter, Spidey will probably forgive you._

"We already tried that. He hates us, remember?" The boxes do tend to get things jumbled up when he blows his brains out, but they were being ridiculous. They can't have possibly forgotten.

 ** _Yeah, because he thinks you're only doing it to get into Spider-Man's lil' tights._** White explains.  ** _Which we kind of are, but you feel guilty either way, right?_**

Wade nods his head. 

**_So you have to convince him that you feel bad! Send him flowers, or money, or at least something that cost money, twinks dig that. Be his sugar daddy._**

"He doesn't need a sugar daddy, he's already rich," Wade mutters.

But it's actually not a bad idea. Wade hasn’t had to make up with someone in a long time, but he does remember flowers always doing the trick when all else failed; it makes the ladies swoon, and the men blush, and the petals are so pretty! Who could stay mad in face of a big, bouncy bouquet? Wade scores himself ten out of ten for the alliteration, and the boxes try to give him even more advice.

Normally, he would make an amazing quip or three (he already has a bunch saved up, guaranteed to make Parker want to stab him in his Little Wade); unfortunately, Spidey makes him want to put on his big-boy pants, and guilt is a surprisingly adult emotion. It makes him want to do adult things, like apologise. Or pay taxes. He doesn't know, but it's a weird feeling and he doesn't know how to go about paying his taxes, so he might panic over that later.

_You... You are a disgrace. Shoot yourself, shoot yourself, shoot yourself-_

"Spider-babe said he doesn't like us killing ourselves, and we don't want to make him mad over having to clean up our guts, do we?" Bringing Spider-Man up always makes the boxes quiet, and that makes Wade like-like him even more. And it's true; if he dies out in the open, on their roof, Spidey will freak. That's just a fact of life, because that's what he always does, even if Wade comes back anyway.

 _ **It's because he likes us,**_ White says, his voice soft and dreamy.  ** _He cares about us being not-hurt._**

Wade sighs as well. Unlike every other hero ever, Spider-Man doesn't want him to die. In fact, he actively tries to avoid that as much as he can, and webs Wade away from anything he thinks is too dangerous. The Avengers are perfect examples; they take him on missions, sometimes, where his job is to swallow whatever bomb pops up, and take a bullet for anyone valuable on the team. Like a less-pretty version of Captain Tight-Ass' shield.

He just needs to make this right. It would be a lot harder to do that if the man were dead, and he just needs to build up to everything. Slow isn't Deadpool's strong suit—no, he's fast and furious all the way—but climbing off the roof and asking for directions to a florist is a start at least.

 

* * *

 

The next day, there are flowers on Peter's desk. 

It's a bouquet that takes up more room than anything else on the polished wood, a mix of red roses and daffodils. Now, he's no flower expert, but his Aunt May had been, so the meaning isn't completely lost on him, and he suspects who may have sent it before he even picks up the folded note. It's a sticky-note that's stuck between the flowers, nestled between leaves and stems. Another one of Deadpool's drawings is scrawled in the bottom-left corner, and he leans his back against the desk to look at it.

It's a drawing of him—there's a tiny love-heart on his cheek, where he had been shot—and Deadpool. Deadpool is smiling widely, and he is scowling. He narrows his eyes and, yep, his tiny, chibi hands are in handcuffs. The words over it say  _best buds 4eva!_ In terrible bubble writing, and Peter finds himself smiling softly at it. 

There's messy script, a quick note;  _I didn't want to shoot ur pretty face, I'm sorry for realsies, impressing spidey or no :(_

The note makes Peter feel normal, even though his face is still tender (and wrapped in a new bandage to avoid people noticing how fast he's healing), and the emotional wounds are just as fresh. 

His phone buzzes, and he flinches almost instinctively; he's technically not supposed to be at work; he was shot two nights ago and, after everything, Harry has been more than a little overprotective. When he had ducked into the building this morning, in some new clothes fresh from the department store, he had had to fend off two bodyguard-esque men, who claimed to have been sent by the Osborn heir himself.

He swipes at his phone, unlocking it and accepting the call in one deft movement. Harry's voice crackles on the other end of the line, absolutely furious.

"Pete! What are you doing?" He asks, and Peter opens his mouth to defend himself—planning on using the long worn excuse of 'I'm an adult, leave me alone', but Harry cuts him off like he can read his mind. "Never mind that, I don't care! I had people sent to your apartment, and guess who wasn't there? I was seconds away from jumping out of my skin, and then I hear that you're at work? I-"

"Harry, I'm perfectly fine," Peter rolls his eyes, and moves to actually sit behind his desk, his note still clenched tight in his hand. The flowers are beautiful, and he breathes them in; grateful for something to breathe instead of clean bandages and antiseptic cream. "I'm a grown man, and I've decided I can come in today. You and I both know I would have come in even if I had died."

His joke falls flat, and he runs his fingers through his hair as he listens to Harry choke on what words to say next. "Peter, you need—you need therapy, man, you need some serious help. You don't need to be working days after you were almost killed!" There's shuffling on Harry's end, and a defeated sigh. "I have to go but please go home. Or go somewhere safe, even come here if you need to."

"I'll try," is all Peter can say. He can't even believe himself, his tone too bland, and his throat too dry. He drops his note on the desk in front of him, and lets Harry hang up. The phone joins the note, and Peter is burying his face in his hands. He can't leave. That would be giving up to the sadness that's trying to claw its way up his throat, or to the fear that's hiding behind his eyes, threatening to burst out in a hurricane of emotion. He's not a quitter, and he's never stayed down after he's taken a hit. Granted, he's always had a bad-guy to take down after he's been punched, but this is different.

He looks at the flowers, and can't stop the feeling of something blooming in his chest.

Deadpool isn't a bad person. None of the baddies Peter has taken down in the past have sent him gifts, or tried to make amends. Deadpool stretches the truth and misremembers things, but Peter knows he doesn't lie about the serious stuff. He trusts him that much, even with everything he's done. He can feel the ghost of Aunt May pressing her lips to his forehead, telling him that he's too good for the world. Reminding him that not everyone can be believed in. He lets himself be carried away for just a second, before pulling his laptop out of a drawer. 

Work is the last thing on his mind. 

He should make plans to have his belongings and research given to Deadpool, so he knows nothing malicious is going on, but there are things he just can't explain. He can't exactly tell Deadpool that the extra money is going toward his Spider-Man tech, or that his anonymous benefactor is actually Tony Stark (who found out his identity under dubious circumstances—don't ask). 

Keeping his identity secret will be hard. He still has people to protect, even more so after the creation of his company. He trusts Deadpool to tell the truth, and he most likely always will; the only problem is, Deadpool is truthful to the wrong sort of people for the right amount of money. 

He leans forward to pick up a rose, and cradles it in his hands.

There's just one question burning in his brain, just one question that he can't help but turn over and over in hopes of finding a solution buried in the roots of his very being.  How is he feeling anything but rage and hatred toward his would-be murderer?

He doesn't really know, but he's grateful all the same. Deadpool isn't someone he ever wanted to hate.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm super curious what you guys think about me, so make an assumption in the comments and i'll tell you if you're right or not!


	4. in my dreams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "In my dreams, shadows call, there's a light at the end of the hall..."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you're either going to love me or hate me for this chapter

There are so many flowers.

It's ridiculous, really, because there is quite literally no room for Peter to move in his office. There's bouquets of purple hyacinths, bunches of buttercups, clusters of yellow chrysanthemums; each one with a note that he is quick to stow away in a tiny box that he keeps in his bottom drawer (for reasons unknown). He hasn't been back to his apartment yet, but he's sure it's in the same state as his office. He's taken to using his less-than-human abilities to get around, because any flowers that get removed are replaced anyway. If there's no room for Deadpool to put any more, he can't do anything.

Isn't the whole point of this making up with him? So why is it causing him even more problems?

"Mr Parker!" His assistant, a strict, blonde woman named Daphne, pokes her head around the door, her pencilled eyebrows drawn close together on her forehead. "The break room is full of flowers!"

_Oh shit._

It's only been four days since his accident, as he's taken to calling it, and his face has healed as much as it can. The skin is warped, the tissue held by newly formed mimetic muscles, and he still has to wear the bandage. It's itchy, and heavy, and uncomfortable in general, and he's so close to taking it off and saying he knows a magical doctor. It wouldn't be the most unbelievable story in New York, he knows that much.

It's been four days, and he hasn't seen Deadpool yet; hasn't gone home either. He's been staying in a nice hotel—the kind with gold furnishings and a massive bathtub, because he's not homeless-homeless. He's a rich person that doesn't have a secure place to stay. Honestly, being rich is probably his best superpower. Like Tony, or SHIELD.

In any case, it's been four days, and he's getting kind of tired of the (admittedly lovely) flowers, because they just remind him of how everything is different now. Or less normal, anyway. It's not like there had ever been a regular kind of day for him before, anyway.

"I'll be right there, Daph, just let me-"

"And there's a man here looking for you!" She looks scared for him—well, a Daphne scared, which present itself as vague annoyance mixed with disdain—and he stills. "He has guns, and a mask, and I tried to call security but he told me to get you instead!"

"You did good," he reassures her, dancing around the flowers on his floor on his way to reach her. "Maybe next time lead with the armed man first? Just a quick suggestion, you did fine under pressure."

"He said to say the flower thing first, to 'add to the suspense'." 

Of course he did.

"And I think I broke his toes."

Of course she did.

"I'll be right out," is all he says, rubbing at the indent his glasses leave on his nose. That's apparently good enough for Daphne, who just nods. This isn't a big deal for her personally, Peter doesn't think. She had been kidnapped by Loki just last week (just out of pure coincidence), and had punched him hard enough, he ended up with a broken nose. She just worries over him because he's _"oblivious! Completely oblivious to everything!"_ and _"would sell away the company to a Nigerian scammer!"_. She's like his Pepper Potts, except he doesn't want to date her because she's scary. 

He knocks over some of the flowers on his way out, and doesn't even bother feeling bad about it.

The hallway that leads to the break room is almost completely blocked, disgruntled scientists and curious interns clamouring for just a peek of whatever's inside. Peter can't help but feel just a little embarrassed when people notice him, and part for him to get through. There's a teenage girl, one of the high school students who have come as apart of their school's job opportunity program. 

"What happened to his face?" He hears her whisper to her friend, and he has to fight down the urge to press his fingers to the stark-white and rather obvious bandages.

He takes a deep breath, turning to the crowd, and using his more powerful Spider-Man voice; the kind that demands attention and respect, even without his special voice modulator. "I'll be out in five minutes. If you're not here for lunch, please leave and get back to your jobs." 

They listen, and Peter's at a crossroad—why has Deadpool come now? What is he going to do, when Peter walks in? He's been apologising, so he probably won't be shot today, and none of his employees were hurt. That has to count for something, right? He can hear humming, and he can smell something burning in the microwave oven, and his mind is made up. He won't be caught unawares again.

Deadpool is prancing.

It's an action Peter is familiar with; when he's in a good mood, the (ex?) merc likes to let everyone know, and let his energy out in some slightly childish ways. Especially since Spider-Man had enforced his strict 'no killing' policy, he has to get his energy out in some way, that won't end up with him in shackles.

He's humming  _Bibbidi-Bobbidi-Boo,_ from Cinderella, and he's wearing a large, poofy dress on top of his suit. It's garish, really; a bright orange, with ruffles, and lace, and an ungodly amount of sparkles. It's not long, but it's layered, which is almost just as bad. Deadpool turns to look at him, his mask stupidly expressive. He tries to look away, years of taught politeness beating at his mind, but he can't force himself to.

It's like a traffic cone met RuPaul's Drag Race.

"You ain't weirdly homophobic, right, Petey-Pie?" Deadpool does an exaggerated twirl. "I'd hate to have another reason to dislike you. That reads as a joke but, really, the only thing I hate as much as mutant-ist people are people who care whose dick I suck. I used to swing for a Ryan Reynolds kind of guy, but _then_ one of my boxes ruined that fantasy for me forever by-"

"Your dress doesn't match your suit." Peter interrupts him, somehow managing to tear his eyes away from the monstrosity. He moves closer and grabs himself a coffee cup, because he's running a company—he's practically legally required to be exhausted at all times. "You should try blue."

Deadpool pauses, before pouting comically in his direction. 

Peter just smiles, a flash of teeth that surprises even him with how real it feels.

 

* * *

 

Wade will never be able to get over how unfairly pretty this man is, even with the evil in his blood, and bandages on his face.

"I guess you'll be wanting a tour?" Peter raises an eyebrow at him, and Deadpool is transfixed.

 _He looks good in a suit, I'll give him that,_ Yellows says, sounding approving in a way Wade is still unfamiliar with. He has to agree; Parker cleans up nice for someone who should definitely be riddled with severe mental problems or shockingly low levels of confidence by this point. He's wearing a suit—not a boring black, but not flamboyant either. A nice, deep maroon that is strikingagainst his skin--with a loose shirt, his collar open by two buttons. His hair is ruffled, like he's run his fingers through it again and again and again.  _He looks like Harry Styles. Put him in floral!_

 ** _See how his ass looks!_** White says, and Wade can feel him leaning forward in his mind. It's as uncomfortable as it is impressive, and he cranes his neck obediently. He's curious too, and it pays off.  _ **He could put Spidey to shame. Now, cop a feel.**_

That's two steps too far for Wade, and he reels back. Yellow shakes his head,  _He probably already has PTSD, dummy. We don't want Spidey to think we're some kind of sexual predator, do we?_

 ** _I guess,_** White isn't impressed, and sulks some more under his breath. Wade rolls his eyes under the relative security of his mask. Parker eyes him like he can tell exactly what he's thinking, so he clears his throat loudly in order to distract him. 

"Shit, did he ask us a question?" It's low enough that he bets even Spider-Man would struggle to hear him, and Peter just snorts. Which, kind of creepy, but he'll let it slide. Besides, he has bigger fish to fry; starting with the present tucked into his belt.

"Do you want a tour?" Peter Piper says, looking almost too amused. You shoot a guy once, and he's never scared of you again. For shame. "To find out if I'm doing anything illegal around here?"

_Oh that's kind of smart! Say yes, say yes!_

"Sure thang, Meaty-Petey," he says, chipper to finally move on somewhere with this case. And with cooperation too! What a nice twist—he hates when criminals don't help bring about their undoing. Petey-Parky wrinkles his nose at the nickname, but Wade's been coming up with some new material, and he's got to test it all. For science! "But first..." He pulls his skirt up, pulling his knee up to hide his bits that don't need hiding because he's wearing a full-body suit. "Don't look!'' Wade warns him.

In response, Peter covers his eyes, his grin never dimming. 

"And... Here!" With a flourish, Wade reveals a hastily wrapped gift. 

Peter's eyes are still closed. "Can I open my eyes now?"

**_Say no, he looks like a baby cat! We love baby cats!_ **

_I don't._

**_And that's why no-one loves, or even likes you!_ **

_You're mean to me._

**_Yeah, it makes me all horny, yanno?_ **

"You're disgusting," Wade says, and Peter's eyes fly open. His forehead crumples in on itself, until he looks like the most distressed and betrayed pixie that he's ever seen. "Not you! I mean, mutant experimentation, and—you know, all that stuff sucks, but I can't help but not blame you. Do you have a Tragic Backstory TM? That might be it. You give me vibes, you know, of someone who witnessed a tragic, close-family murder. Is that what propelled you into crime? Is it-"

Peter's hands hover over his as he looks closer at the package. It's wrapped in newspaper, and Wade is proud of the fact that he only ripped three parts of it. "Is this for me?" His voice is hushed, and Wade looks at it self-consciously. He looks back at the flowers that dot the tables and benches—tulips, this time—and wonder if he's being too much of a weird stalker.

"I mean, yeah." Wade says, smoothing his hands down his dress. "I thought the flowers might have seemed kinda empty, you know? I'm trying to be a good-guy, like Captain America, or Spidey, and you're normally supposed to make up with someone for..." He gestures vaguely at his own face, and Peter doesn't shrink away at the reminder, like most normal people would. In fact it's eerily familiar, the way Peter brushes off his words and only smiles a rueful grin.

Before he can place where before he's seen that same smile, Peter takes the parcel from him, and looks down at it instead. "I guess that is the polite thing to do," he says. "Look, I didn't mean to be so rude, when you visited me. I was just upset, and I thought you were going to hurt me again, and I lashed out when it seemed like you didn't even care. I believe you, so you don't have to get me anything more."

Wow. So much for being his Francis—Wade had never been able to forgive Francis and his dumb, cleaning-spray name. Granted, his torture had been a lot longer, but the end result had still been the same. Both he and Peter are scarred now, and he has been forgiven.

God, what a saint.

_I thought he was evil._

A hot, pitch-fork holding, demon saint.

**_If I wasn't in love with Spidey, I would fall into crime again just to tap 'dat ass._ **

"Just open it," he urges. Peter leans his back against the table (and, wow, Wade had really overdone it with the flowers), in a way that seems practised and deliberate, and picks at it with his fingers. The newspaper falls apart in his hands, and he's left cradling a lump of something that reminds Wade of gel. "I'm not really sure what it is," he admits. "I picked it up from SHIELD—you probably don't know what that is, so let's just say it's run by a pirate and a few monkeys—and decided you would like the science-tech-doohickey more than me."

Peter lifts his head, and Wade is relieved to see a soft, kind smile tugging at his lips, rather than a scowl or frown.

He's never been so proud to have been courteous, and patient with a bad-guy. Looking at his pleased smile, and doe-eyes, Wade knows that there's some hope for him yet. He can be the Wade, in their relationship, while Real-Wade is Spider-Man.

Rehabilitation might actually pay off this time, he thinks.

 

* * *

 

Deadpool had given him an image inducer.

He's never been inclined to make them himself; his main interests, due to personal reasons, are chemistry and biology. That's always worked for him, and he's never really had much of a reason to stray. The extent of his mechanics-based projects include his web-shooters. And those really revolved around the compounds involved in his web formula, more than anything. 

He doesn't know if it had been purposeful, or if it had been an honest mistake. He's guessing that it had been more of a mistake, because Deadpool is the type to use it for himself first, if only for a little while. 

Peter has known him for years, and his issues with his skin have been the cause of a lot of their arguments. Admittedly, his first reaction to Deadpool's skin is not one he's proud of. Thankfully, his mask gave him some amount of secrecy while he tried to regain his composure. He's not typically a rude person—Aunt May and Uncle Ben had seen to that--but he has no delusions about how bad Deadpool's skin is.

It's constantly shifting, the open wounds of his face opening and closing as they try to heal, only to end up back where they were before. But, when Peter had first seen it, and they ate together for the first time, he had grown used to it rather quickly. He had seen past it; the strong, defined line of his jaw, the handsome dips in his cheeks as his cheekbones were put on display. The strong arch of his nose as he rolled his mask to rest on his bridge.

His scars aren’t ugly, not in the traditional sense; they make him look dangerous, even sick, but they didn't detract from his more _defining_ characteristics. It's like Wade can't see past his scars, which Peter can only sort of understand—even with his own face.

He escorts Deadpool around personally, an act that earns him more than a few shocked looks from his staff, and from the man himself. 

"Don't you have, like, really important work to do?" Deadpool asks, flipping off a man who sends him a disgusted glare for his outfit. "Not that I'm complaining, oh miraculous scientist sir, but that seems like a regular thing to assume. I mean, not that anyone would trust me with any amount of responsibility, but I once helped run a taco-truck with a a pal of mine—it was ages ago, but it's still relevant because I said so—and, long story short, I burned it down using one sheep, a spider, and a can of silly-string. My point is, my friend wasn't there to stop me, and you are my friend and your company is me."

Peter bursts into giggles, high-pitched and an embarrassing laugh for a grown man to make.

Deadpool doesn't seem to mind it though, based on the way he lets out a series of deep chuckles of his own, that melt into a hysterical howl. "I don't know what we're laughing at," he says, wiping at the eyes of his mask, like he might find tears there. "But I love laughing, Pete, my man, my second-favourite evil henchman."

"Hey," Peter shoves him gently, before guiding him down to the elevator, punching the numbers and swiping his key that will let them into the lower levels. "I'm not a henchman, for starters, and why am I only your second favourite?"

"Because Bob from HYDRA is my first favourite," Deadpool nudges him right back. "And is that you admitting that you're the lead boss?"

"Nope," Peter says, popping the 'p'. "I'm saying that if I  _were_ evil, I would definitely be the pretty woman, who pretends to be a hostage and seduces you, the protagonist, only to betray you at the last second."

"Gasp," Deadpool says. "Is that what's happening now, I'm telling you this before it's too late; my safe-word is 'chimichanga', and I'm a little spoon, in case you feel sorry for me afterwards and want to give me some human comfort before you sell me out to your boss."

"Deadpool, you're priceless," Peter says, his tone dripping with barely hidden sincerity, along with his regular playfulness. "I don't think anyone could afford you."

What's that thing his college professor taught him years ago? To keep his work and personal life separate? It's almost a bit too late for that, and Peter doesn't know if he should let things go any further. The elevator dings, and the doors slide open, and he's all too aware of the fond grin on his face as Deadpool waltzes into the lab above his own, personal one. Spider-Man is work, and Peter Parker is work, so where does that leave Deadpool?

He supposes Deadpool isn't really one to be left anywhere; he kind of just does as he pleases, consequences and rules be damned. If Peter tried to make him do anything at all, the man would probably do the opposite, just to spite him. 

He waits in a corner as Deadpool pokes around, resigned to staying out of his way, and calming down any anxious employees that approach him. He doesn't know exactly what Deadpool is looking for, and he's rather not get in the way of his investigative mood. God knows that the merc is absent-minded enough without people approaching him while he's trying to do things. He'd be lucky to get the guy to stop talking once he's started.

What a  _dork._

Merc with a Mouth indeed; while he's heard Deadpool make quite the number of sexual jokes out of his own title, the Avengers made sure he knew it was because the man was talkative. And then they rambled about how he was a terrible influence, blah blah blah, skewed morals, blah blah blah, and a whole lot of other stuff he did not care about at all. All in all, while he respects the Avengers (most of the time, and nearly never to their face. Except for Black Widow, because he adores her with his whole heart), their opinions suck. That's how they keep getting into bad social situations. They need to learn how to accept differences in views, because narrow-mindedness isn't Peter's style.

Deadpool bounces back over to him after around fifteen minutes. Peter waves at his scientists, and mouths a quick  _sorry_ for the disruption.

”So,” Deadpool says once they’re back in the elevator, clapping his hands excitedly. “What about the next floor down?” 

Peter had expected this. He had known Deadpool would ask, but that doesn’t stop the nerves that spark in his brain at the question. He’s tidied up a little bit; his web formula has been significantly upgraded in terms of ‘science-speech’ as Wade calls it. It is pretty much impossible for someone to understand if they don’t have a degree in biology or animal sciences. His first instinct is to argue but, with Deadpool watching, he swallows and presses the button. 

 

* * *

 

Petey-Pie is obviously on edge.

Wade doesn’t know what is in his super-secret-high-tech-funky-lab, but he bet it’s something realllll good. Maybe the cure for cancer. Maybe a new bomb.

 _Maybe a butt-fuck amount of illegal mutant experiments?_ Yellow says, unhelpful as ever. _That’s what we’re here for, right? Not just to get some ass?_

Well, that is what they’re here looking out for; it’s pretty on the money. He doesn’t know what will surprise him more: if there are mutants there, or if there aren’t. Peter is actually a pretty great dude; he listens to him babble, gets his sense of humour, and lets him poke around in his (probably) really expensive science havens! 

Stark would have thrown him out of a window by now, so he’s on the fence about trusting Parker or not. On one hand, he’s acting like a super good person. On the other hand, even really bad people can act like good guys if they want to. It’s a matter of whether or not Wade is gullible enough to fall for tricks, or paranoid enough to avoid them.

**_It’s not paranoia if there are actually people out to get you_ **

True, Wade muses. But he still has a large number of issues that he can’t be bothered to deal with. He’d drive any shrink insane, he’s positive; everyone he’s ever confided in has been left emotionally and mentally scarred, perfect to match his patchwork outer appearance! Even Weasel had almost thrown up when he started to get into detail about his time at Weapon X, a feat he had never thought he’d achieve.

And never wanted to again. The sound of Weasel retching is burned into his brain, and he’ll curse it forever.

The elevator slows to a smooth stop—and Wade is ninety-percent sure that he has better elevators than the ones in Stark Tower—and the doors slide open. He can’t even help the impressed sound that’s torn from his throat at how pretty everything is. 

It’s all gleaming; there are metal surfaces with tubes of coloured chemicals in their fancy little holders, a holographic blueprint that has words floating alongside it. He can barely make out ‘organic’ and ‘compound’ and ‘predisposed’ before he’s ready to pass out. He’s no idiot, but he got straight into Special Forces from high school. No college or university for him; it was just killing bad guys and getting a dishonourable discharge. 

There’s a white board with a few diagrams drawn in sloppy blue marker, and there are quite definitely no people being ripped up, or having blood drawn while they’re begging to be sent back home. 

He decides to poke around a little more. Parker bends over to look over his work—and thank Jesus for his ass, because it almost completely distracts Wade from his work in the best way. He bets that it’s Peter’s secret plan to distract him—and pulls open a drawer. He pulls a phone from it, and it’s all Wade can see. He decides to look around first; just like Spidey had said, just because it’s a burner phone, doesn’t make the guy evil. It makes him smart, because no-one knows his number or shitty fake g-mail account, so they can’t hack him. Is that how technology works? His swiss-cheese brain is failing him.

He wanders around aimlessly, noting the high ceilings and metal floors with eagle-eyes.

”What do you work on in here, again?” He asks, bending down to look at the floor some more. He taps at it, once. The area isn’t hollow, so he moves on. 

That gets Parker riled up—in a fun way, of course. “Well, I engineer organic, versatile compounds mostly. This is kind of my fun science room, so I work on everything under the sun. Just recently, I came up with this solution that turns into an almost concrete-like substance when it comes into contact with rain. Of course, testing it was a struggle-“

Wade nods, only half listening. Science, science. Massive nerd? Check! 

He taps at another part of the floor. It sounds normal, and he moves on.

_Why are we crawling on the floor again?_

_**To see if there’s anything hidden under the floors, dumbass. Pay attention.**_ White answers for him. 

He’s about to knock on another part of the floor, when his phone buzzes. He groans, and puts his hand on the small of his back when he sits up straight, feigning a tiredness he doesn’t truly feel. It’s a message. And not just from anyone.

No, this message is from Spidey.

 

* * *

 

Peter can’t have Deadpool finding his almost-finished Spider-Man suit.

He just can’t. 

Being a secret is ingrained in his very personality at this point; even if he knows Deadpool is sorry for shooting him, even if he knows he will be elated to know that Peter trusts him, he just can’t. So he messages him instead. It’s a huge risk—Deadpool could just as easily demand to see his phone, and find out his secret that way, but Peter weighs his options and takes the plunge.

**Meet at our normal roof DP?**

Besides, Deadpool would be inconsolable if he found out he had shot Spider-Man, a close friend of his. It wouldn’t be fair to just spring that on him, would it? 

The cruel, sharp part of Peter’s brain tells him that he’s not hiding to help anyone but himself. He can’t help but agree, and can barely keep his face politely interested when Deadpool announces his leave. “I best be off,” he says, his smile shining through his mask. “I have to drop this lovely dress at home before going and doing some more hero work.”

”You should wear the dress,” Peter says, trying not to sound choked up. “The criminals and your hero friends would appreciate it.”

Deadpool shrugs, and Peter knows that he’s thinking about it. He can’t help but hope that the mercenary will wear it; anything to boost his self-esteem will make Peter happy, and he’ll be sure to compliment the dress if he does wear it to their meeting. He’s typing out a message, and Peter waits for his phone to buzz. He puts it on silent, just for extra security, and gestures to the elevator.

Deadpool bounces inside, his fingers still tapping furiously until...

**omg hey bby boy i missed u a LOT so did the boxes i’ll be there in lik 10 mins xoxoxo no take backs see u soon**

Peter smiles, and slips his phone into his pocket.

The image inducer is a comfortable weight in his pocket, and he already has a plan in mind. He waves Deadpool off, promising that he can finish the tour next time, before heading straight up to his office. Daphne has cleared out some of the flowers; they’ve planned to have them donated to certain places, or just have them in the entrance to the building. 

He locks the door—his office is high up, and doesn’t have cameras. No-one will think in a million years that he jumped out the window. Just in case, he tells Daphne that he’s not to be disturbed.

That basically means that if anyone comes within two feet of his door, they’ll have to deal with an irritated Daphne. The perfect cover. 

The wobbly piece of tech attaches to his face perfectly, after he takes his bandages off; it vibrates, clinging to his skin slightly, and he gently feels for the button he knows is there somewhere. He won’t be able to use this as Peter Parker, not without some serious questions and accusations, but as Spider-Man? It’s almost too good to be true. He finds the button, and presses it. It scans the rest of his face and, after hooking it up to his phone, he can decide what he wants to look like. 

It’s an easy choice.

Once he’s made his decision, the inducer pulses, before stretching tight over his skin, and projecting a false image of an unscarred face.

He doesn’t spend too much time admiring himself, before he’s pulling his suit up (he rolls it down to his waist normally, so he avoids having to fully change on his way to active crime scenes. It's worlds better than stripping in alleys, trust him). He doesn't want to get used to the inducer, either, and tempted into using it for non-hero reasons. It would be a nightmare to get used to being normal, or better, and stripping it away like it's nothing. 

His mask firmly on his head, persona settled in place, he feels amazing. The inducer is an unnatural force that moves across his skin in a way that won’t be visible to anyone else, and it’s the only thing that keeps him from being completely and perfectly himself.

Deadpool is waiting by the time he arrives. He’s clearly more than a little concerned; he’s juggling his knives in what Spider-Man knows is just a trick to keep his hands moving and his mind still, free of unnecessary concerns. He’s not wearing his dress, and Peter can’t help the instinctive pout that follows that realisation. He waits for a moment, observing Deadpool’s movements before deciding to end his misery. 

He doesn’t even have both feet planted on the ground before Deadpool is squeaking, jumping up and down in one spot. Peter webs his knifes, catching them and pulling them to the ground before they can bury themselves in Deadpool’s head. 

“Spidey!” Deadpool says, his arms bunched up uncomfortably like he’s restraining himself from getting too close. Without fully knowing why, Peter closes the distance himself, rolling his mask up to sit on his nose. Deadpool follows suit—a well practised show of good faith. “I thought you were still mad at me! You’re totally allowed to be bee-tee-dubs, because I don’t get to decide how you feel, ya feel? So just lay it on me, are we cool, less than cool-“

Deadpool has a very nice voice, Peter realises as the man continues to ramble.

”-and then me n’ my boy, Petey, who is also your boy, were talking science stuff, which is super not-boring I guess, and I told him I was super-duper sorry for hurting him, which I am! I want to be a regular, boring super-hero-“

He’s very expressive, his arms moving to show exactly what he means; it’s like a movie, or show, and it’s incredibly distracting.

”-so, even though I don’t deserve it, I’m begging for your forgiveness, because you were right and I was wrong—urk!”

Maybe he's searching for comfort. Maybe there's some small amount of buried desire, from years of friendship. Maybe he doesn't know how else to shut Deadpool up. Maybe there was a mystical love-chemical on Deadpool's notes and flowers. Maybe it's because Deadpool is sweet and sincere, and it's hard to see him like he would a monster. Maybe it's because he missed the experimental phase as a teenager, and is looking for something new. 

With all the maybes, even he doesn't know why he pulls Deadpool down by the material of his suit, crashing their lips together in a single second.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> click [HERE](https://xbloodrunsredx.tumblr.com/) for my tumblr!
> 
> also, if you write a fic inspired by this, or draw anything inspired by this, let me know so I can shout it out in my notes and give it my love!!


	5. say no to this

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "How can I say no to this?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> click [HERE](https://xbloodrunsredx.tumblr.com/) for my tumblr!
> 
> Catch my 'Into The Spiderverse' reference and you get a cookie!
> 
> very busy with family, so this is just a feelings chapter unfortunately :( still helps with my characterisation tho!

Peter has never been with a man before.

He had never even thought about being gay before Deadpool; but, once the man had started with the sexual innuendos and the comments about other men, it had been hard not to. Deadpool could make a comment on another man's body (see: his ass), and Peter would chip in with his opinion that, as a supposedly straight man, he probably shouldn't have.

He's had a few crushes before. Gwen, MJ, Black Widow (when he was seven!)...

_And Harry, once upon a time._

But he doesn't think any of them could ever hold a candle to the bliss that's singing in his blood, the feeling of scarred lips on his as he tilts his head. There are warnings going off in his brain, but they blur with the fireworks. As Spider-Man, he's used to the near-constant police alerts and the ringing of his spidey sense, and he can't be bothered to listen right now. Instinct takes over—from where, he has no idea—and there's a crooning voice in his head, telling him what to do.

 _Pull him closer,_ it says, and he listens, one arm snaking around Deadpool's waist.

 _Pull him down,_ it says, and he brings his free hand up to curl around the back of Deadpool's neck, guiding him down.

 _Web him up so he can't escape, and then eat him,_ it says, and Peter pauses for a moment. It's quickly decided that he doesn't want to do that, and that any particularly animalistic—or, well, spidery—thoughts should be ignored. 

Before he can continue the kiss himself, Deadpool places both of his hands on either side of his face and,  _oh,_ there's a problem even Peter, with his hormone addled mind, can sense. There's the buzzing of electricity, and the sound of leather against rubber is heard by both of them. Peter stills, to a real stop this time, and he can feel Wade stiffen from where they're still connected by their arms, hands,  _lips..._

Peter had kissed Deadpool. Peter is still kissing Deadpool.

His colleague, his friend, his shooter, his something, and he had kissed him, had wanted to kiss him. His image inducer is still stretched out under Deadpool's fingers, and Peter can almost hear the pieces trying to click together in the mind of the older man, and he pulls away. There's no finesse, none of the grace that would make some mistake him for a gymnast or ballet dancer; no, he's all gangly limbs and stumbling as he puts distance between them.

"Webs?" Deadpool says, his voice scarily quiet. He's not threatening; Peter can't see him threatening when he's on the wrong side of the man's gun, let alone here where he just sounds lost and confused. "What's on your face? Is it—is it another parasite sitch? Or maybe you're an alien, and your skin feels like a lump of play-dough naturally? You'd be just as hot if you were a goop monster, but that's something you tell a guy before you kiss him."

"Deadpool-" He starts.

"Call me Wade, Spidey," he says, voice still cheerful despite the uncertainty of the situation. "I mean, we just did have one of the hottest make-out sessions I've had since I was with this bomb-ass giant lady a few years back."

Guilt crushes Peter like a building, tearing him down. He feels like a bug pinned to a wall, needles pricking at his arms and legs as he struggles. He's struggling; he can tell Wade, and have him sad and betrayed. He can not tell him, and feel the all-too familiar feeling of self-reproach sinking his stomach every time he sees him. There's an expectant look that is somehow plastered to Wade's—Deadpool's—mask.

At least he's not pressing, or jumping to conclusions. He's been learning, and he's certainly been a lot slower in his actions and words since the accident. There's no reason for Peter to be anxious, or nervous over such a good change but, well...

Good things never grow from bad soil. 

That was the first thing Aunt May had ever taught him when she showed him her garden. It was a small little thing, the wooden boxes that sat on the windowsills of their apartment, filled to burst with flowers of all shapes and sizes. She told him the name of each and every one, their meanings and uses; she even tried to tell him the science behind it, even though she herself knew very little.

He's not one to run away. He never has been, even in the thick of things, even when he's been punched so many times that there's blood in his mouth, and darkness clouding his vision. But now...

He yanks his mask down, and lies. "Wow, that was—I mean, I don't know why I did that, I'm so sorry, I just—there's nothing wrong." There's a bitterness coating his tongue like slime. "There's absolutely, positively nothing wrong, at all, ever! I mean, except when there are bad-guys chasing me, because that's really inconvenient, you know?"

He's met with a look of disappointment. Wade licks his unmasked lips, and Peter stares. Misery is drowning Peter, flooding him in its entirety because Wade's disappointed. It's oozing from his every pore, from every crack and crevice in his face. He kissed Wade, without asking, without thinking of his feelings, and he's read into all of his flirting and comments, when they were jokes. 

He had always thought they were jokes, but now he looks back and sees embarrassment and hope, and a tingling feeling that might be the big, dangerous L-word. When did they stop being jokes? When did this start?

There's so many questions, and there's no air for him to ask them. 

He's so wrong, and this is wrong, and Wade's opening his mouth to speak-

Peter flings himself off of the roof. He runs like he never has before.

_Coward._

The voice sounds like Uncle Ben this time, and tears prick at his eyes as the aching of his limbs intensifies.

 

* * *

 

Heaven and hell are one, and Wade is torn between ecstasy and agony.

Death isn't something he will ever be able to fully describe; it's a place beyond his understanding and, for all his creative metaphors, there's no words that could ever capture it for all it is. There's some small amount of relief. There's a lot of pain. There's quiet, there's understanding, and there is Death in all her glory. There's everything and nothing, and it's almost as hard to understand as what just happened.

He had been kissed.

He had been  _kissed._

His face looks like a pizza, his suit hasn't been washed in two weeks, he’s pretty sure he smells like gasoline and take-out food, and his hero had kissed him. His hero, Spider-Man, the webbed wonder, the booty in blue—that hero. Wow. 

 _Are we dead?_ Yellows asks, faint.  _Please, tell me we got into heaven. This is heaven, right?_

And Spidey had jumped off of a roof to get away from him.

 ** _You scared him off!_** White yelled, crossing his imaginary arms.  ** _Who cares about his face?_** ** _We were kissing Spider-Man. Spy-der May-an._**

_There's only one syllable in man. He ran away because White is an idiot, who needs to shut his idiot pie-hole._

**_We could have gotten to second base, at least--you're both the idiots for just letting him jump off of this insanely high building._ **

_He's Spider-Man, though!_

**_Exactly!_ **

Wade lets them bicker, their voices fading into a dull background. "The feeling was familiar," he says, soft and almost drowned out by the bustling traffic. "We've felt it before. Whatever it was."

Damn his swiss-cheese brain; and he knows, he knows; it's his own fault for shooting himself so many times. Maybe his memory would be better if he didn't take up a hobby of diving off of buildings so the boxes could give him scores out of ten. Maybe he shouldn't have leapt in front of so many bullets when he was going head-to-head with those evil girl guides. At least he knows one thing:

For as long as he's alive, he'll never forget what Spider-Man's lips feel like against his. 

He can feel the exact moment that the boxes switch pace, knows the feeling of gasoline being poured in his mind, and the flames that erupt when White and Yellow drop the match.

 _He ran away because he couldn't believe he was touching anyone as disgusting as you,_ Yellow's smile is a searing pain in his brain, and Wade feels ten times heavier. That's not right... Is it? Spidey has never reacted to his face badly before, but years of bad experiences catch up with him, and he's worried. Yellow snickers when he pulls his mask down, fumbling to secure it properly around his neck. He hates when the boxes get like this, cutting and cruel to save their own skins.

They're selfish, and rude, and Wade thinks that they're probably so, so right.

Was it a spell? A prank, a trick, a curse? Had Loki dropped back in to visit New York without Wade realising? It might be a hallucination; but in those, the boxes are silenced, and his skin is smooth. Even under his costume, he can feel his scars twisting and shifting, itching as they open and close, stinging as the rough fabric of his suit scratches at them. He can still feel, still see, but this can't be real.

 _ **Do something!**_ White urges him, voice only a little more desperate than Yellow's.  ** _Fix it, you piece of shit, make it better!_**

"Are you guys messing with me?" It wouldn't be the first time they had played with him like this; making him believe something that isn't true. It's to keep him from going soft, they've said before, to keep him on his toes. They're not funny, not even close, and he can't name the number of times he's woken up in the middle of the night, heart pounding and gasping for air he wasn't sure he'd breathe.

 _What, you think we're a dream?_ Yellows asks, sickly sweet.  _You think we're still being experimented on, and ripped apart? You don't believe in us?_

He doesn't know what to believe.

The good feelings have faded, the happiness, pleasure, all of it. His cloud nine has disappeared beneath him, and he's falling deeper, and deeper. He's pacing without realising it, throwing his arms around like a crazy person.

He feels crazy.

He feels crazy, and he recognises that feeling, he just doesn’t know where from—

 _If you don't believe in us, just jump._ Yellow tells him.  _It's so easy. Just jump._

Wade forgets about Spider-Man.

He jumps.

 

* * *

 

Peter is in his hotel.

He still hasn't found a house yet, every apartment just as bland and empty as the last. It's always been something that has bothered him. He grew up small, his childhood home cramped and crowded. There was always someone around, always someone to be in the company of, and now...

Now he just feels alone.

Being alone is terrifying and liberating; there's no-one to lose, and only because he's already lost them all. There's no one to hurt, because he's hurt everyone he's ever had already. There's no-one to lie to, because he's pushed everyone away. Literally and figuratively. And, hell, he can't forget the look on Deadpool's—Wade's—face, the whites of his mask open wide, his mouth open in question, and Peter had run away.

Like a coward. Like everything his Uncle Ben had been against.

It turns out that the great and mighty Spider-Man can be felled by feelings. Trucks and guns can't take him down, but emotions? Apparently he's not as strong as he thought he was. Everything in his life is going wrong; his friendships, his reputation, his living situation...

Still, he's handling it like a champ.

By that, he means he's sitting in the shower, knees clutched tight to his chest as he sobs. He hasn't even taken off his  _suit._

Everything is terrible, everything sucks, and he's exhausted himself of any viable option to choose from. He could give up the mask and live in self-imposed exile for the rest of his life, and live with the guilt and shame forever, or he could lose the only meaningful he's truly been able to cultivate while wearing his mask, and fall back into his old loner habits. Peter doesn't want to lose Wade.

Because, as much as he hates how their first, shared kiss had gone down, he _likes_ Wade.

His head drops further into the cradle of his kneecaps.

And he had ruined them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GUYS IM SO HAPPY
> 
> go read my Avenger: Endgame AU fic [HERE!](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18692032)
> 
> Scribbler Productions made an audiobook from it, and I've been over the moon since I woke up to the notification! Presents like this make me ridiculously happy, so if you get inspired tag me, shoot me a comment, message me with your username, whatever, and I'll be your No.1 supporter!!! I'm sorry I'm gushing about this im just so stoked :')
> 
> comments and kudos make my day!


	6. friends on the other side

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You’re in my world now, not your world...”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> remember to leave a kudos, comment and share !!

Wade's heart is an open wound, festering and diseased. Misery oozes from every inch of his body, infecting it further until all he can do is let it leech put of his eyes, water droplets falling down his cheeks, running through every crack in his face like water through a creek. He's-

"Fucking hell, asshole, I can hear your self-pity spiral from behind the bar." Weasel says, pulling Wade's drink away. "You need to go to Egypt, take this job I got for you, and calm the fuck down about—"

"Spider-Man!" Wade interrupts him, resisting the urge to burst into noisy tears, knowing from experience that Weasel won't hesitate to kick him out. "He kissed me, and what do I do? I scare him off. Someone who doesn't care that my skin is trash, someone who has a fine-ass booty, and someone who wasn't even mad that I shot his fuck-buddy and fucked up his face! Now I'm a lonely old man, spending my Sunday morning drinking at your fine establishment. I swore I'd never come here after the incident—“

"You pissed yourself and shot Old Billy's toe off while wearing a bright pink speedo. I was traumatised."

"—and here I am," Wade throws his arms out, nearly knocking Dopinder off the stool next to him. "I haven't seen my Baby-Boy in four days, and I haven't even been able to focus on my dumb case with Pretty Petey."

"Mr Pool, I think you need a vacation," Dopinder rights himself, looking earnest as ever. "I know a place in the Bahamas, with lots of bad people to kill. I could bring my Aunty, the one with—"

"Mouth herpes from kissing a man she thought was Tom Cruise," Wade finishes. "I'm familiar."

"I don't know how she thought he was Tom Cruise," Dopinder continues like he had never been interrupted at all. "Tom Cruise is very handsome, and the man she kissed was very slightly not-handsome at all. She said it was because it was dark, but my Aunty has very good eyesight, like a rabbit. She ate lots of carrots when she was little, I think, because it was the only vegetable that wouldn't break her fragile teeth. I too, have fragile teeth now."

"I love you and your weird family, Dopinder, I really do," Wade says. "But if I ever went to the Bahamas, it would be a no-killing, smashing that Spidey-ass kind of trip, you know? Bob from Hydra said he would rent me a condo if I gave him Nick Fury's phone number, and now I don't even have a reason to give it to him."

"You could do it for chaos, sir," Dopinder says. "To annoy Mr Nicholas and get revenge for when he sent his agents to try and recruit you for a weird mission."

Weasels sighs, and putters away to clean a glass or whatever it is that bartenders do. Wade's been friends with him since forever and three years, and he still has no idea what he does aside from make weirdly sexual drinks.

 _I'm pretty sure that is his job, asshole,_ Yellow says, in an almost pitying voice.  _Man, you've really let yourself go. Please don't shit yourself this time, I don't think any of us could handle that shame again._

**_Bold of you to assume we even feel shame anymore._ **

"You know I love chaos as much as the next immortal ex-mercenary, Dopinder, friend-to-kill-all-friends," Wade swaps his empty glass for Dopinder's; an act that doesn't go unnoticed, but does get looked over by the former cab-driver. "But there's almost no point without my Spidey-babe there to wave his finger at me, and tell me off for not listening to my moral-meter. It's not nearly as fun, you feel me?"

"I do not," Dopinder is still somehow smiling. Wade's fun-loving, but wow, no-one can compare to him. "But with my brief stint in mercenary work—"

"You mean when you kidnapped Bandhu, who was in love with Geeta, who you were in love with."

"—I too discovered the importance of love in my sad, boring life."

The bar is almost empty, which Wade isn't surprised by. While Sister Margaret's is a sanctuary for the scum of the universe, most people have families, or at least plans. Even the lowlifes have things to do, apparently. Except for Wade. Which isn't fair, of course, because he's cooler than all of the other dumbasses that come here and get their toes shot off.

_**What, because you're a mutant? Racist.** _

_I think he means because we've touched Spidey's butt. Is mutant even a different race?_

**_I haven't seen the movies in a while, so your guess is as good as mine. I think it all revolves around 'we're humans too, so bleh'._ **

"Dopinder, your life is awesome!" Wade says, and Weasel shoots him a blank stare. "You get to work here, and meet new people, and kidnap rivals in love, and all that fun stuff, right?"

"The people that come here make me want to pee my pants. Mr Weasel has me working behind counters when there are more people here, so I don't get trafficked." 

To Dopinder, he says. "That's the spirit!" To Weasel, he stage-whispers: "Please don't let him get kidnapped."

Weasel lets out a long-suffering sigh, looking toward the sky like he's looking for a God he doesn't believe in to grant him patience. His glasses are filthier than the glasses in this place, long-stained with questionable liquids. Coffee, Wade's blood, probably some jizz, he doesn't really know.

"It's not my fault that he's here, acting all soft and naive in front of the worst people in the world," Weasel explains. "If he gets kidnapped, people know I know you."

"People also know you're a massive pussy."

Weasel scowls, and Wade grins winningly. 

"Can we go back to talking about how you're sad and lonely?"

Wade raises Dopinder's glass in a mock salute, the brown liquid sloshing dangerously. He takes a sip, considering the taste carefully. "Dope, my man, why does your alcohol taste like Diet Coke?"

"Because it is, Mr Pool. My mother doesn't like me to drink because of my former career, and a mishap that ended with an elderly white man decapitated—"

 

* * *

 

Peter has been running from Wade.

At first, it hadn't even been his intention; his spidey-sense had been the one to urge him to hurry off and get undressed in whatever alley-way was closest, or swing back to his hotel or work. He hadn't noticed the correlation until he heard Wade's voice after stripping himself of his mask and rolling his suit down, the ex-merc interrogating a petty thief that he had left webbed behind him.

He's been devoting most of his time to helping elderly ladies down the street on his lunch-breaks, and directing good-press towards Parker Industries, in case Wade's interest in his company is made public. It's in his best interest to do some good to clear his name before his dirty laundry is aired.

He hasn't seen Wade in either part of his life, actually. He had been worried, that being around Wade would make his cheeks turn red, and his breath too quick to explain away. He had resigned himself to it...

But Wade never showed. And, after three days, he had stopped hearing his voice on the streets, the low timbre brought up to a high, faux-cheery falsetto. The one he always uses when talking to criminals, and one Peter had never, ever thought he would miss as much as he does. And, god, does he miss it. He doesn't want to see him, but he doesn't want to watch him go, and the thin line he's walking is going to rip him apart.

He's felt loss. He's felt every kind of loss known to man, and he should be immune by now. There should be nothing that can surprise him anymore, but he can't help but feel this ring deep in his chest.

He wants to take it all back.

Back to before, when he had never kissed Wade, back when his flirting wasn't something to be taken seriously. At the same time, he doesn't want to go back to a time where Wade was afraid of rolling his mask up, and tried to compensate by being louder than life. 

Wade's loud on a regular basis, but when he's feeling insecure? There's no-one in the world that won't be able to hear him. Merc-With-A-Mouth indeed.

He's picky, he's fickle, but he never thought that Wade would give up on him. There has to be something he can do; anything that will right this wrong before it spirals into madness. He's had villains created for less.

"Mr Parker?" Daphne smiles at him from the door way, strained and professional as always. "You have a video meeting in ten minutes with Pepper Potts on your clean-energy agreement, and you made plans to visit the graveyard this afternoon. You'll be escorted by a security detail due to the events of a few days ago—would you like me to have someone buy you flowers?" 

Peter smiles at her, considerably softer than the curve of her own lips, and she visibly deflates. 

"Yeah," he says. "Can you please get me four bouquets this time, Daph?"

She nods her head, and doesn't dither; instead, she closes the door behind her, and leaves Peter to sit alone.

He notices that the room isn't nearly as uncomfortable as before.

 

* * *

 

Wade has to get back to work at some point.

He doesn't like to work on a broken heart, but he has a million useless chores he has to complete as a responsible adult. It's technically a job; it's hard being a grown-up, after all, and he deserves credit for trying! He doesn't know how Spidey does it if he's being honest; it seems so boring all the time. 

Also, he's pretty sure his apartment is infested with rats.

A big one crawls out of the wall, scuttling across the floor with it's tail dragging behind it, and he squeals an un-manly squeal. He pulls out one of his guns and aims it at the floor, pulling the trigger once he's sure he's got a decent shot at actually hitting it. He cracks one eye open, and is immediately filled with a panic he will never be able to replicate when he doesn't see a little corpse.

There's a chittering in the walls that grows louder, and he gulps. 

 _ **Abort! Abort! Oh my god, I just wanna die, why won't god let us die?**_ White's sobbing, and Wade jumps onto his cracked kitchen bench. There's rotted food laying out, a half-eaten chimichanga and a mouldy slice of cake.

 _Shoot!_ Yellow screams, scanning the ground for any movement.  _Shoot everything! Kill them all, the little parasitic bastards. I knew it was a bad idea to abandon this place to sleep on Daredevil's roof, it's not even a comfortable roof!_

"This apartment was our best investment, and now it's ruined!" Wade moans, pointing his gun at the holey wall. The plaster crumbles, and there's squeaking and rustling. It'll haunt him forever. "It's ruined forever, and now we won't be able to invite Spidey back here and make kissy-faces at him before respectfully tapping dat ass, because the bed will be full of these little demons! Demons!"

The boxes whimper in unison, and Wade can feel his brain squeezing tighter, like they're trying to hug each other.

There's a break in the wall that splits even further, the force of what looks like hundreds of rats squirming their way onto the dusty, unswept and rotten wooden floors. Wade remembers when it was clean and polished, and he screams loudly. He throws guns, knives, and his favourite boot at the creatures that swarm the floor, the dust kicking up. When it settles, there are no corpses yet again.

 _ **Mutant rats?**_ White's voice is a whisper, like the rats will attack them for thinking.

 _Abandon ship again,_ Yellow decides.  _We have enough money to buy a new place with a big bed._

There's no hesitation.

Wade runs out of the door, screaming like there are rats nipping at his heels.

He’ll just go back to Weasel’s bar.

 

* * *

 

Peter can't let himself chicken out. He can't, he absolutely can not. 

Realistically, he needs to put his spider-suit on. As Peter Parker, he hasn't done anything to Deadpool that warrants flower-giving as an apology. He also knows that if he straps his web-shooters on, there will be nothing stopping him from running away. It might be a little hard to explain away but, well, it'll settle the guilt that's swirling uncomfortably in his belly. 

Deadpool is at Sister Margaret’s. He knows because he’s been texting him non-stop—on his burner phone, of course. Even without his web-shooters, his first instinct is to run away. 

He is Spider-Man, though, with or without the red and blue spandex, and he’s already run away once.

So, as Peter Parker, he steps through the bar’s threshold, flowers in hand and a crooked smile on his face. He waves awkwardly at Wade when he spots him, both of his exposed cheeks heating up. The day is warm, and the air is stale, and his scarf is suffocating; but better than his bandages by far. 

“Hiya.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> friendly reminder to drink a glass of water and take deep breaths; you deserve to be calm and healthy <3


	7. speechless

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "But I won't cry, and I won't start to crumble, whenever they try to shut me or cut me down."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this was meant to be a lot longer, but i liked where i left it off,,,, sorry!

Peter goes to the graveyard every Sunday.

He doesn't normally go to work on a weekend, but he has plans to finalise and people to call; some of his more ambitious scientists stay in as well, taking advantage of his labs and resources. He doesn't mind—it's a good feeling, letting people have fun with his money and property, helping them strive to be more creative and better at what they do. Sometimes, when he does have to come in, he goes down to offer his advice.

He likes to think that, if his company hadn't worked out, he would have become a teacher. He loves his job, but he loves teaching people; even as Spider-Man, he teaches by example, and tries to rehabilitate before all else. It's just who he is.

"You should go home," Daphne tells him as she hands him his flowers, a bite to her words. "It's the weekend; no time for working. I could have taken care of everything."

Peter can see why she's being short with him--behind her stern expression and glasses, the steadiness of her hands and her neat hair, he knows she's insecure about her job. It's an important one, Peter thinks, being so close to the man running the place she relies on for money. They've worked together for years, but there's always going to be doubts about whether or not he'll drop her for someone younger.

"You know I trust you," Peter says, and almost punches the air when her face softens. "I just feel wrong leaving you here to deal with everything. I like helping my company once in a blue moon, even if you'd be a lot neater at it than me."

"I know," she sighs. "But you're young, and you deserve to go out and leave the paperwork for the old lady. Go on a date, I don't know. I just... I don't want you to regret wasting your time here when you're older. And resent me for not trying to help you."

That went deeper than even Peter had expected it to. He has a million things to say in response; denials, reassurances, even an apology for making her worry. In the end, all he can do is take the flowers she had still been holding out, and hold them against his chest in a gentle hug. She doesn't wait for him to find words, instead offering him a sad smile before making her exit. 

Peter hates being the one to disappoint people; he wants to be a hero, he wants to be a good boss, and he wants to be a good person. Those things shouldn't be so difficult, but every time he tries, someone gets hurt in some way. It seems, no matter what, he's always going to let someone down and he doesn't know how to cope with that. 

_With great power, comes great responsibility._

And Peter is powerful, in more ways than one. He's rich, he's famous, he's influential, and he tries to be responsible with that. He does his best, but it's never enough. The weight that had already found its home in his stomach doubles; guilt, and loneliness, and fear all hollowing out his organs to make room for the feelings he's forced to shoulder. 

The last thing he wants is to force more stress onto anyone else, but he doesn't want to take a car. His Sundays are private, and they're special to him. They're for him and his family, where he can go and apologise for all he's done and all he's failed to do.

He can't do that with bodyguards and a big, shiny car following him. He can't swing either. He wants to see Wade afterwards, and apologise to just one more person, even if it's just through a gift. He's already proven himself to be a coward as Spider-Man, so hopefully he'll do better as Peter Parker. A regular guy, who has no reason to be afraid or fear confrontation.

He's glad he didn't give up his identity, now. 

He leaves his web-shooters and suit hidden underneath the false bottom in his middle drawer, praying to whatever deity that would listen that his Parker luck wouldn't strike again. He'd hate to have to run back to his work, or any of the other places he's hidden his worse-quality suits, before going to fight a bad-guy. He feels selfish and stupid, but he knows where Sister Margaret's is, and he knows he has one of his first suits (sans web-shooters) locked in a storage facility nearby. 

Under his Uncle Ben's name. He had had friends in the area, when he did charity work on the weekend. He had bought a box to store some of his old items that wouldn't fit in their apartment anymore, but were too important to him to sell. 

He pulls a sweater over his shirt, and wraps a scarf around his neck. His face is tingling, unused to the air-conditioning after spending so long under wraps. It hasn't even been that long but, like he had already known, he was too adaptable. Too good at getting used to new situations.

Once he's changed into a reasonably un-CEO clothes, he counts his bouquets.

One for Aunt May and Uncle Ben.

One for his parents.

And one for Gwen.

He sighs, deep and long, and tries not to feel bad about their deaths.

It's hard; if he had been more careful with Gwen, if he hadn't gone out so late that Uncle Ben had to come and look for him, if he had started his company before Aunt May became too sick to get better... what would it have changed?

Would they still be alive? Would his life be the same?

He slips on sunglasses, and leaves the building faster than he ever has before. It's easy to blend in with everyone else, and go unnoticed by the people waiting for him to leave the building, even with his flowers.

There's a final question that he doesn't dare to think too hard about:

Would he even still be Spider-Man?

 

* * *

 

The first thing Wade sees is Peter's cheek.

It's somehow more obvious than the blinding white bandage he had worn before; the wound curling over his cheekbone, creeping its way up to his ear. It's horrifying, in the sense that people on the street would stop and stare, wondering  _what happened? He must have been in a lot of pain._ Because someone as pretty as Peter doesn't deserve the scar that will mar his skin for the rest of his life.

**_When did gears switch from murder to 'he's not so bad'?_ **

_When our dick got involved. Or, at least Spidey's morals. Besides, look at him! He's probably being extorted or something._

**_I'm just saying, it wouldn't be the first time we were burned by a pretty face._ **

And God is he pretty.

Wade wouldn't want to offend him, but all he can see is the proud nose, and heap of hair that catches the—now midday—light perfectly. He's wearing a scarf, a dark blue that covers him up to his chin, like he's trying to drown himself. There's an almost lost look on his face until he catches Wade's eye, a smile nearly splitting his cheeks in how wide it is, though his steps are still hesitant. Wade tries not to notice how his smile is wavering, and his fingers are trembling.

Looking at his hands leads Wade to the second thing he notices:

The flowers.

A large bouquet, bursting with life and petals and leaves; it would leave a lesser man weak at the knees. It leaves Wade weak at the knees. It's beautiful, and Peter's striding closer and closer, the purpose blooming in his eyes more lovely than the petals in his arms. Wade feels disgustedly enchanted, enough so that it mellows out any confusion on why Pretty Petey is here in the first place.

He looks down at his now-empty glass as though it will be able to give him the answer he's searching for, and realises one last thing:

He's not wearing his mask. 

"Shit!" He's tempted to dive over the bar, and hide his face. And arms. And neck, and any part of his body that isn't hidden by his over-sized Hawaiian t-shirt. Why on earth did he think it was a good idea to take his suit off?

_I already told you, it touched the rats! It's not like I expected Peter Piper to show up at this dump!_

An apology is on the tip of his tongue, along with ten flower themed pick-up lines ("damnnnnndelion, I'd like to put our tulips together", for a terrible example), but two things stop him; after the kiss he had been unsuccessfully been trying to push from his mind, flirting—even as a joke—would feel wrong. The second is the fact that Peter has yet to throw up or run away. He seems, aside from the furrow in his brow, _normal_.

How does he even know that he's Deadpool? Is his face on Wikipedia? 

**_I think our Facebook page is public._ **

"We don't post our face on Facebook, silly," he says without really thinking about it. Then, turning to an empty space, he continues: "The meanie strangers would try to kidnap us! Stay safe online, kiddos and adults!" 

He chances a look at Peter out of the corner of his eye. In a shocking twist, he seems unaffected by a scarred, armed man talking to himself. Weasel, the gossipy bastard, has moved a down to 'polish' a section of the bar that Wade would testify he had already cleaned. Dopinder looks clueless as ever; torn between staying and going to help his boss. "Mr Pool, is the audience listening now? I don't want them to read my thoughts and tell you again—I was just thinking about my lovely Geeta, and it got very, very intimate—"

"The audience doesn't care, Dope, so go help Weasel."

He obliges, and Peter takes his seat.

"I'm sorry for intruding," he says and, damn, his eyes are too big and earnest for their own good. "I hadn't seen you in a while and I thought you could use some flowers to cheer you up. If that was why you stopped coming around, I mean—I don't know why you're here on a Sunday, drinking and wearing weird clothes, because I haven't seen you! At all!" He shoves the flowers at Wade, his cheeks turning a rosy red that would match his Deadpool suit.

Wade's too shocked to crack a joke, so all he can do is mumble a  _thank you_ that barely passes his lips in its quietness. Peter seems to hear him just as well as if he had shouted it, and nods his head. There's an awkward silence for a few seconds, before Peter melts like an ice-cream left in the sun. His confidence that had him sitting straight flickers out, and he releases a deep sigh.

It's the same look that he's seen fifth graders do when they finish giving a presentation in class; relief that it's all over, and an unmatched horror that they went through with it at all. 

"So..." Peter looks like he's building himself up to something, his words forced. "Would you—I mean, are you interested—"

"Spit it out!" Weasel yells, siddling closer. "Or just make-out already!"

Peter's cheek darken; it shouldn't be possible, but it is and it is glorious. "What do you think about Spider-Man?" He asks suddenly, pulling at his scarf. Wade is captured by the scar, the cobweb lines that shouldn't be exposed to the air yet, in Wade's opinion.

_What do you know about healing without powers?_

"Love him," he answers honestly, ignoring Yellow. "He's just... he's great. A real hero."

Peter grins, like that's the best answer in the world; Wade bets that fifty people would say the same thing, but he doubts (for some reason) that Peter would smile as beautifully at them as he does in this moment. "Good," he says, his smile not faltering. "I... good. I hope I see you around soon, then." He hesitates for a brief moment, and Wade watches him chew on his bottom lip before...

He leans in to peck him on his bare cheek.

"Bye!" He scrambles away, adjusting his scarf and waving in a way that makes Wade feel impossibly protective.

There's a short silence.

Then Weasel whistles. "Wow," he finally says, scratching at his scruffy chin. "I didn't expect for two people to be into you at once. I had trouble believing the Spider-Man thing, but holy shit. Did they both go blind or something? And didn't you shoot him? Isn't he evil? Why is he trying to climb your dick?"

"I don't know what's going on," is all Wade can breathe. "Am I pretty again?"

Weasel snorts, and Wade supposes that that's his answer. It doesn't tell him the answer to this, though:

How is he supposed to deal with Spider-Man  _and_ Peter interested in him?

 

* * *

 

Parker luck strikes again, and Peter is just tired.

It's Dr Doom, and he would normally trust the Four to take care of it but they're off-world, which leaves the responsibility to him. God knows that the Avengers only show up when SHIELD lets them, and there's something about Peter that makes spy organisations angry. So, they'll leave him to clean up the mess, and try and offer him a job with them afterwards. It's a joke, only Peter's not laughing.

He loves being a hero, but he already has a full-time job! He doesn't have the patience to kill a bunch of crappy robots, and listen to the same old monologue as always. 

In fact, even he would make a better villain! He would be original, a mad-scientist with spider-abilities. Ooh, maybe he could join Deadpool in mercenary work? He's always loved his stealth suit, and he's sure he could remodel it for a new, evil look. Deadpool would probably love him for it even more; black really makes his abs look good, it always has.

But no, his moral compass loves shaming him, which is why he has to go and waste time walking (running) to his storage locker, getting his suit out, and being sure to double-check whether or not the old cameras have been replaced with ones that actually work yet. They haven't, and he counts his few blessings. The universe has a unique way of spitting on him at every point, so he's grateful he has this small allowance. 

he changes quickly, abandoning his sweater and scarf, and hesitating at the inducer. Another explosion sounds, and he plasters it to his face; he just won't pull his mask up. It won't be hard, especially after seeing the consequences of last time he had kissed someone without getting consent. The feeling in his stomach is back, and he tries not to think about it.

He tries not to think about how good, and comfortable Wade had looked in his stupid t-shirt, and he tries not to think about how his eyes were warm and kind instead of cold and calculating like he thought they would have been. He tries not to think about how this had been the first time he had seen him without his whole mask on, and how he'd trusted Peter not to react badly.

He thinks about it anyway.

It's not like he can help it! Age has left him undisciplined, and he's hardly known for denying his instincts.

Swinging around town, fighting crime, throwing punches, rooftop kisses, his spidey-sense... the list could go on for miles. He doesn't have his webs, so he's left crawling and jumping from rooftops, occasionally hitching a ride on the odd flying robot. 

"Spidey!" He's distracted from his thoughts by Wade—Deadpool—who is waving his arms to get his attention. He smiles despite himself, and he can feel as the inducer stretches grotesquely. "No webs, babe?"

He twitches at the nickname, but drops to the cement in front of the mercenary. He could have flipped away, but it's not fair to do that when he's already been spotted. What's he going to do, anyway? Try and interrogate him during a potentially city-destroying attack? No thank you, Wade's always very eager to prove his capabilities to him as Spider-Man.

"Old suit, unfortunately," he lands on the balls of his feet, letting his knees bend until he's in a comfortable crouch. Wade—who has also gotten back into his suit, which is still filthy—looks him up and down purposefully, wolf-whistling. Peter straightens, coughing an embarrassed cough, before wrapping his arms around his middle. "No webs today, which makes this ten-times harder than it already is."

Deadpool scoffs. "It's Doom, spidey-babe, so this is already easy as pie. The man doesn't have an original bone in his body, I swear to the heavenly lords that shine upon your bootalicious booty. Less-than-three."

Peter laughs, a full-bellied laugh. "Did you try and say a heart emoji at me? And I was just thinking before about how I would make a better villain in my stealth suit."

Deadpool smiles beneath the mask, and cups his hands together in a wonky heart. "Ooh, that suit does wonders for you, babe. Let me know if you ever go dark, we can team up and kill pedophiles together!" He pulls a sturdy-looking grappling hook from his belt, and aims it at the sky. Without looking, he pulls the trigger and tugs Peter closer by his waist. "Hold on!"

Like magic, it finds a sturdy hold on a passing robot, and they're tugged away.

The resulting fight takes not even twenty minutes. He doesn't know why the Four always take so long to defeat him; Deadpool cuts through the androids like butter, and Peter finds good use of his grappling hook, and flings himself at Doom. Doom's on a floating hover-board, monologuing, and isn't well-equipped to handle a hero that can stick to him like glue. All it takes is a well aimed kick and,  _bam,_ he's out of the race.

He lets Wade cling to his back like a squirrel-monkey, and scales them onto a nearby roof afterwards, at the man's own request. It's not like he can make things much worse, and the least he owes his friend is an apology.

He has something to say but, as often as it has been happening lately, no words come; instead, all he can do is throw his arms around Wade.

 

* * *

 

There had been a robot fight. He and Spidey had made up. It had been bad-ass, but all he can focus on his how sketchy Peter looked, opening a storage locker and closing it behind him.

There's something going on, he knows it. He can feel it in his bones, the restlessness that grows there whenever he's confronted with a particularly difficult puzzle to solve. He knows he's being lied to, and he doesn't know why he's so surprised; but there are bags under Petey's eyes, and a weariness to him that makes Wade want to cry in sympathy. He looks like a broken man, and Wade knows what broken men do. 

They lie, and cheat, and steal, trying to find something to make them whole again. 

And there's nothing. Wade knows, from personal experience, that looking for a whole something and breaking it to fit your soul doesn't work. There are just more shards scattered into the mix, more broken people, and more mistakes. Some people break themselves; they want to try something, just once, and it ruins them before anyone else could. And then they ruin others. 

If Wade knew who broke Peter, their head would be skewered on his swords.

He's tempted to go and break into the storage locker, searching for anything that proves it's not Peter's fault, but then Spidey's arms are around him, an apology bubbling over and spilling into the air. 

"I'm so sorry! I kissed you without asking, and then I ran like a coward. I'm no better than the people you hunt down, and I'm sorry for making you worry! I just—I just—" Spidey is acting near-hysterical. His voice is high and cracking, his limbs shaking like he had been putting this off for too long, and doing it now, with adrenaline pumping through his body, was too much. "I don't blame you if you never want to see me again, because I know you're only joking when you say those things, and I took advantage of you!"

_No, baby!_

**_Baby!_ **

"Oh no, baby," Wade cooes, his arms finding a home around the hero's waist. "I don't ask when I try to cop a feel, or when I flirt with you, or do anything like that! I promise you, I'm not angry at you, and I do want to see you again! Is that why you've been avoiding me?"

Spider-Man just nods into his shoulder, and Wade's heart breaks.

He should go and investigate Petey-Pie, or look for a new house, or go and get his shirt from where he shoved it over Weasel's counter.

He has a lot to do, but he just hugs Spidey. If he were sappy, or honest, or even remotely good at being emotional, he would admit that there's nowhere else he'd rather be. But he's not, so he just squeezes the shorter man tighter.

It's nice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> click [HERE](https://xbloodrunsredx.tumblr.com/) for my tumblr!


	8. i'm still standing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Wind up like the wreck you hide behind that mask you use."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so happy! me and my team won a debate that's leading us straight to our finals, which is utterly amazing; we're the first people at my school to make it this far, ever!

An image inducer.

The SHIELD crony in front of Wade keeps talking, the same device he had given Peter held tight in her hands. Her suit is cheap and tacky, and her hair is swept up in a hasty pony-tail, and she's holding an image inducer. He really should be listening—this job pays a pretty penny, after all—but all he can think of his Spider-Man's cheek under his hand, and the unnatural feeling of it, even through his glove.

"—as always, we appreciate you working with us, Deadpool," her voice is clearly meant to be soothing, but all it does is grate against Wade's ears and nerves, his face frozen underneath his mask. She clearly senses that something is wrong, and her smile becomes frozen on her face; he can smell the fear on her, and he barely bites back a scoff.

Pathetic, even for SHIELD.

She's inexperienced, boring, and he already misses the last guy they had working with him. Jason, Jared, Jeff; it had been something that started with a 'J'. What even happened to that guy, anyway?

**_I think she said that he was viciously murdered by a Kree. Something about missing limbs, disfigurement, mourning family. And now she's taking over as your handler._ **

"Ugh," he can't even hold it back. She's so bland, and boring; he would bet his foot that she bought her personality in the same store she bought her outfit in. They're cut from the same, cheap material. She doesn't even blink, which he mentally applauds her for. Too many SHIELD agents take everything he says and does too personally, and them shooting him really detracts from his amazing punchlines

"Problem?" Is all she says, and he snatches the inducer from her, kneading it as gently as his racing mind allows. She steps back, her left eye twitching minutely—it doesn't escape his notice that she has moved out of an arms reach. "Mr Wilson," she shuffles back another step, her voice beginning to tighten somewhere in her throat.

Jakey had had much more patience.

_Switch your mind back to the thingamabob! Connect the dots, you buffoon._

"Has Spider-Man been around much at all?" He asks, waving the inducer in front of her face. "Maybe long enough to get his sticky fingers on one of these?"

"No," she starts, her forehead creasing ever-so slightly. "But the mission—"

"I've changed my mind!" He tells her, beaming brighter than the sun as she splutters incoherently. "I'm afraid Daddy is busy today, doll, so we'll have to take a rain-check on that tea-party! Text me, Sammy!"

She has a lot more to say, apparently.  _"My name is Sarah!" - "You can't just leave, we're in a helicarrier!" - "Where do you think you're going!" - "You can't take that!"_

Blah, blah, blah.

All Wade can do is thank his lucky stars that they haven't moved over water yet; leather is a bitch and a half to swim in, and he doesn't want to unnecessarily damage the tech he's tucking into one of his pouches. That wouldn't do at all, and Spidey would probably throw a fit if SHIELD came looking for him again. He doesn't want to be told off by Spidey because a secret-spy showed up during his patrols looking for a certain, hot, leather-clad vigilante.

**_Daredevil?_ **

_Ooh, Captain Marvel in her new outfit? The legs on her, by the way. Wow._

**_No, she works for SHIELD, remember? I don't think she counts as a vigilante if the government technically allows it. And if she heard you, she would beat us all up._**

_You always ruin all my fun. K-Y-S._

It's hard to listen to their banter, the air whistling around his ears drowning them out rather spectacularly. He can't even hear the  _whoosh_ of the invisible helicarrier anymore, and he's counting the moments before he hits something in the forest below him. He doesn't want to spend his time picking his organs out of a tree, but broken legs are also annoying to walk off.

The ground doesn't seem any closer, so he pulls his phone out.

"Love of my life?" He says sweetly when Weasel picks up. "Can you send someone to pick me up from my coordinates?"

There's grumbling, there's bitching and, finally, there's a sigh of acceptance. Weasel likes to play tough, but he knows he'll be annoyed to hell and back if he says no now. "I'll have a guy there in thirty. What's that I can hear in the background, dickwad?"

"I'm plummeting to my death, snookums," the ground is getting closer, so he needs to hang up soon. "Gotta go, learn to love yourself, get laid, bye!"

The good news is that he's most likely not going to land on a tree. He doesn't want splinters in his ass, no sirree, so the leaf-covered ground is probably the best thing he has going for him right now. He screws his eyes closed, an instinctive response that years of free-falling hasn't cured him of, and just about chews through his lip as his legs crumple beneath him, his bones cracking as his spine is forced into an unnatural position, sending shock-waves of pain through his entire body. His breathing is laboured as he forces himself up, his back popping into place, his brain whiting out for a blissful second.

"God _damn._ " The boxes are quiet, taking a few moments to come back online. Like he always wonders when he does this, Wade thinks about what he would do if they never came back. It would make his life a lot easier, that's for sure. 

He needs to stay relatively still if he wants to actually get picked up, but not walking once he breaks his legs always leaves him with an almost unbearable stiffness in his joints. He pushes himself off the ground, his fists clenching uselessly in the dirt with nothing substantial to hold onto. It gives way easily, but he manages to force his weight onto his legs, staggering to a nearby tree as his body shakes off death.

Like always.

He fishes the inducer out of his pouch, hoping it hasn't been damaged too badly. In a surprising twist of luck, it's perfectly fine; which, honestly, is probably a sign of terrible writing.

Wade's not the smartest, but he's definitely not an idiot. His job involves seeing things other people don't want to see, being aware of his surroundings, and being smart with that information. Something's being hidden from him, something big, and he knows where it ends in starts.

The inducer pulls tight in his hands, his knuckles strained and white under black leather.

 

* * *

 

Deadpool is taking a mission out of town for a few days, he had told him, so Peter is going to be alone.

That's fine—he's been patrolling alone for the most of his heroic antics. As a teenage vigilante with half the city out to see him in jail, he hadn't trusted many people at all, and that had leeched into his adult life until Deadpool. Even now, he's seen as a terrible excuse of a mutant by a large portion of the city, though cops never try to shoot him anymore. He guesses that saving their lives had drilled that sense of honour into their brain, or at least a begrudging sense of fairness.

He saves their lives, they don't take his.

It's a pretty good rule, one that's been working out really well for him. The past three years or so have been his most popular, he thinks, based off of the online polls he scopes out on Facebook and Instagram. Even after defeating The Lizard, people had mistrusted him and the power he has in one pinkie finger.

Finally, after years of helping old ladies cross the street, and helping children find their lost cats, he's earned some modicum of respect. In his humble opinion, it's a little overdue, but he guesses he would think badly of himself if he _wasn't_ him.

No matter what way he spins it, he's used to bad treatment. That's largely why he's not paying the officer yelling at him from his car much attention.

He's a little chubby, his eyes bulging in a way that's familiar; it reminds Peter of J.J Jameson, from when he still worked at the Bugle for any scraps the man had been willing to give him. His words, spat with a fine layer of pure poison coating them, aren't a stranger to the vigilante's ears either. He's probably heard worse, in mask and out of mask, and he's not willing to pay them any attention at all.

It's a bit annoying, if he's being honest; the ruckus is chasing away any criminal activity that Peter might have busted. The cop might have seen it as a good thing, but if peope are going to commit crime, he'd rather they do it in front of him so he can stop them before it gets too far. The next time he runs into a rapist or mugger, it might have been one he could have caught earlier if this guy would just shut up. He's probably never been told that, and Peter's getting ready to swing away when he hears one thing that makes him stop in his tracks.

Like a fly caught in the web of a spider, he's dragged down into the man's venomous mouth.

"—and where's the other freak, huh?" His red hair is matted down to his scalp, angry sweat covering his face in a thin sheen. "You gay fucks gonna run around and try and do my job better than me? You think you're better than us, you fucking fag?"

Peter's calm.

He's fine, his breathing is even, his face is relaxed.

And then he's not. His composure is lost, smoke in the wind in the face of his icy rage. Angry-Cop's partner is sitting in the car, her head pressed against the steering wheel like she's trying to block out the sound. Peter's anger isn't something people see a lot. He generally considers himself to be rather patient, and he's a symbol for people to follow as an example. He's not Daredevil, who leaves broken bones and black eyes. He's not Deadpool, who considers a bullet in someone's dick restraint.

He webs them, fights when he has to, and slinks back into the shadows.

As a boss, he can't be angry at his employees. He's disappointed sometimes, but his job is to show them how to be better. He can't teach them that they're wrong for making mistakes.

He can't teach this bastard anything he hasn't already heard before, so his mouth is opening, the lenses of his mask narrowing slightly. There's a cutting insult of the tip of his tongue, webs ready to be fired, but he can barely get the first word out before he's interrupted.

"Hey, gents!" Deadpool is leaning against one of his katanas on the roof next to Peter, his fingers wiggling in a sweet little attempt of a wave. It might have worked if one of his fingers weren't so horribly broken that it leaves Peter wincing in sympathy. "You ain't being mean to my little love-bug, are you? That might make me a little upset, you catch my drift? And homophobia, really? I thought Netflix ended that with their new LGBT inclusive shows."

"Not a bug," Peter mutters, just loud enough that he knows Deadpool hears him. His anger hasn't disappeared, but it's simmered down to a faint tug at the back of his ribs with Deadpool's abrupt arrival. "How did you even get there without me noticing?"

Deadpool ignores him, like he hadn't even spoken at all. His voice deepens, his words flat and hollow, and Peter would swear that the wind got a bit colder. He's not afraid, but he feels his spine curve in response, every nerve set alight in this new, uncomfortable atmosphere. The cop hasn't said anything yet, his eyes wide and his mouth open. Peter scowls, frustrated that Deadpool can inspire this kind of compliance while he can't.

He supposes that Deadpool's reputation precedes him, in most cases. It's not exactly a reputation Peter would like for himself, but it gets the job done well enough.

"I didn't—I mean—"

Paler than a sheet, his face screwed up as though he's in pain, the officer is apparently lost for words. Peter's seen the exact look on his face before; when particularly idiotic criminals try to come up with an original insult, they get the same pained expression. 

"Get lost." There's no bite to Deadpool's words, and his gaze is focused on Peter, in a way that makes him shift like there's electricity crackling under his skin. The cop's partner gets the memo, and slams her foot down before the car door has even fully shut, peeling away and becoming just another sound in the far distance. Deadpool seems to be considering trying to jump to him, so he quickly leaps over, fingertips and feet on the wall as he climbs up the rest of the way.

"Good timing, dude," Peter raises his gloved fist for a fist-bump, a gesture that's automatically returned. "I was ready to web that guy up to the wall, and that would not give me brownie points with our brothers in blue."

"He would have deserved it," Deadpool's— _Wade's,_ he needs to start thinking of him like a friend, rather than just a partner—voice has softened, and his hands are fidgeting slightly. "People like that don't deserve to be in positions of power over vulnerable people. He's just another shitty person that's apart of a shitty system, and he should have been taken down a peg or two."

Peter blinks, surprised and unsurprised at the same time at his seriousness. Wade's well-known for looking out for people who need it, and people who are taken advantage of by powerful people, but Peter has very rarely witnessed this side of him.

"I have something to ask you!" Wade says, his voice high-pitched and squeaky. He's twiddling his thumbs, and looks the most bashful Peter has ever seen him. He also doesn't miss the way that Wade subtly angles his body so that it'll take Peter a hot second to find a good vantage to throw a web. "Or tell you! I don't know what I'm doing, and I don't want you to be mad at me, but you need to be honest with me!"

Peter blinks again. Has he been thrown into an alternate universe again without realising it? What is wrong with the world today?

"Didn't you have a mission?"

"I cancelled it."

That would probably explain the rips and tears in Wade's suit, his mask placed oddly upon his head. Peter peers, suspicious; if he didn't know better, he would say that his spine or neck had been broken, and his mask still hadn't been righted from it. He hates it, probably more than anything, when Wade hurts himself just because he knows he won't die from it. He doesn't think he could ever understand it.

"Shoot," he says, and cringes inwardly at his choice of words. "You don't have memory-loss again, though, do you? You were so mean to me last time, before you got it back."

His words are childish, but they achieve the desired affect, and Wade grins an obviously strained smile through the mask.

"Why are you using an image inducer?"

Peter can feel his spine stiffen, his head tilting up defiantly in response to a new challenge. His muscles flex uselessly, and he knows Wade notices. He knows, because Wade's watching him with a keen eye, and slumps to make himself smaller in response. Peter's no idiot; he knows that he's Wade's hero, but this feels like an intervention. This feels wrong, like one slip of tongue will give Wade his identity.

So he lies.

Like he's been doing for ten years, something that should come easier than breathing, but chokes him still.

"I'm not," his words are just as flat as Wade's had been before. His lie is obvious, and Wade sees through it before his mouth is even open. It's not hard to tell when he's lying, and he's been around Deadpool long enough that he knows his ticks. The way his voice drops and falls, the way his shoulders square like he's expecting a fight or scuffle to break out over what he's saying.

He shouldn't even be bothering, but it's so ingrained in his being, that it's the only thing he knows will keep him safe.

"Spidey..."

Wade is hurt, and Peter needs to give it up, but his hackles are raised, and his mind is screaming  _deny, deny, deny!_

"I'm not, I don't know what you're saying, DP, I really don't. I don't know why you're trying to say that. I mean, I wear a mask! I don't need some fancy inducer thing, when my face is already hidden. Duh!"

He would say more, but Wade is pulling something from his belt, and  _oh._

_Oh._

A replica image inducer is stretched thin in Deadpool's hands, the same one he had given him as Peter. A whirlwind of thought barges through his mind, trampling every coherent thought until all he can think of is his Secret. With a capital and more power than Peter should ever be expected to hold alone, it has the power to ruin him. It would ruin him, it would ruin the people that work for him, and Deadpool's going to expose him on a random roof.

He's going to expose him, because how can he not know?

It's too much.

It's too, too much for him to handle and, so--not for the first time--Peter runs from Deadpool.

 

* * *

 

Wade stares after Spider-Man, the inducer feeling heavier than it should in his hands.

Spidey's voice had been choked, tight and uncomfortable. It hadn't been as defensive as he had expected; no, it had been sad and tired, hurting and breaking over every word. It had reminded him of someone and, now, Wade feels his brain stretching tighter than a rubber band. He looks down at the inducer, and sees Peter's face, flushed and happy at his gift. 

Peter, looking bone-tired and rotting from the inside out, hair ruffled like he'd been wearing a beanie.

He had given Peter the exact same device, hadn't he?

On the roof that day, Peter had seen him, and Spider-Man had shown up. 

When he had been kissed, Spider-Man had avoided him, and Peter had given him flowers.

They had both been interested in him.

The ball drops.

"Oh, _shit._ "

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me, lying about having no more cliff-hangers? it's more likely than you think.
> 
> click [HERE](https://xbloodrunsredx.tumblr.com/) for my tumblr!


	9. meant to be yours

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You left me and I fell apart, I punched a wall and cried—Bam! Bam! Bam!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm honestly still in shock over how well this story has done, like nearly 500 kudos for eight chapters? whaaaatttt? with my level of writing skill? impossible. i'm just so *keyboard smash* i love yall

_Oh shit. Oh shit, oh fuck._

Peter is Spider-Man.

And Spider-Man is Peter.

It can't be possible. It can't be, because if Peter is Spider-Man, and Spider-Man is Peter...

Then Wade has made a big mistake.

This can't be his life, because this is hell. He was a bad person, who had done bad things in the past—hell, even last week he had stolen that taco—but even he didn't deserve to be that guy. He had seen every rom-com on Netflix, and Stan,  _and_ Pornhub, and none of the suspiciously similar, bland, hetero-normative couples shot each other in the face. That was always reserved for the bad-guys!

Wade is the bad-guy in Petey's—Spidey's—Baby-Boy's romance movie!

What's he even talking about?

What is he even talking about, when he's the one that shot his baby, his sweetie, the only person that helped him make something decent out of his life. The only one who never flinches at his scars, and wouldn't dream of pushing him off a roof when he gets annoying. The one person that genuinely wants to team up with him, and spends time with him without being forced to.

And he had  _shot_ him.

He had wanted to hurt him, wanted to see him bleed, and he had ignored Spidey when he was just looking out for his own life. He had just been trying to make sure Wade didn't hurt him, and Wade had fucked up and hurt him anyway.

All he ever does is hurt people.

He's been left on a roof after confronting his best friend, and he had discovered a secret he was never, ever supposed to know. A secret that people have literally killed to try and find out. Wade's not responsible; he's no Captain 'Loose Lips Sink Ships' America, and he spills everything to anyone who will listen to him.

**_Shitty coping mechanism. What, you only tell people secrets so they have a reason to pay you any attention at all? Is that why you sold Tony Stark's missile blue-prints? Pathetic._ **

_That's too close to the truth! Just tell him to get butt-fucked by a sandpaper dildo, it'll be easier on his sick, twisted mind._

"What am I supposed to do?" He whimpers, even though he knows they won't give him any advice whatsoever. No good advice, at least; disgust is curling around the edges of his brain, propelled by thoughts that don't belong to him. The boxes are angry, and sad, and he's angry and sad. Emotions aren't something he knows how to handle, even with his mostly violent and close experiences with them.

_Seek him out, and cut your head off in front of him! In front of him, until he feels sorry for you!_

**_Leave, and never come back. He needs space._**

_And I need to see Spidey! He loves us! We love him! We can't just let him go, not when we have no-one else!_

**_We're disgusting._ **

What can he do? What is he supposed to do, when he's ruined someone's life, warped their skin, and taken everything from them? He's taken Spider-Man's time, Petey's privacy, when they've done nothing to him. Nothing.

What has he given them back?

What makes up for the shooting, and the threats, and the general upleasantness of his  _everything._ He pays for late-night food, but that cash is nothing to him. Nothing to Peter—who is Spider-Man, by the way!—and it doesn't compare. What had Spidey been trying to drill into his brain for so long? That no money is worth human life? That there's no amount of material wealth that accounts for stripping them of their rights?

He had forced himself into Peter's life, Spidey's life, his life, and he hadn't cared. He had thought he did, but he can't have, if that's how he treated him. If that's what he did to someone he loved, he shouldn't have been so surprised when he had done it to someone he had thought he hated.

He had hated Peter. He had felt it deeply in his bones, rotting them from the inside-out in a way that was, unfortunately, not new. He had felt loathing curl on his tongue, tainted with whiskey and vodka, and he had blown his face apart. He had torn through skin, and muscle, and nerves, of someone who had trusted him. Is that why he ran? Because he didn't trust Wade anymore?

It's too much to think about.

He vomits.

His mask is soaked through with tears, the inducer still clenched tight in his frozen fist, as he tries to make it less real than it is. He can't breathe, and this is how Peter had felt. This is what he had done.

It's what he deserves.

(He's choking, it hurts, and he's hacking up nothing but bitter disgust, and pain so tangible it makes him want to cry even harder.)

He shouldn't want anything better.

(He's clawing at his face, his first instinct battering at his brain, telling him to hurt, to break, to bleed his debt to Spider-Man away. His debt to Peter.)

His mask is too heavy, too oppressive against his sweat-soaked skin, and he pulls it off, dropping the inducer to do so. The whites of its eyes stare up at him, mocking him with their lifelessness. 

That's what Peter had seen.

And, what if he had succeeded? What if he had blown Peter's head off? If his hands had been that much steadier, his vision that much clearer, and he had finally done something that couldn't be apologised away. That couldn't be reversed. The boxes are silent—if he didn't know better, he would think he had died—and he thinks that he might be alone. What would he have done, when Spidey disappeared, and someone, anyone came out with the truth?

He would have killed himself. Over, and over again.

 _We would have gotten him back,_ Yellow is quiet, mellowed in a way that makes Wade take pause and listen.  _We would have ripped him from Death Herself. We would have clawed him from her bony little fingers, and helped him. Death's not so bad, anyway._

"But what we did to him was worse," Wade's voice is hoarse, ripped and sore, though he can feel the muscles stitching themselves back together. "What  _I_ did to him was worse."

There are no denials, just like Wade had known there wouldn't be. What can he do to make it better? What criminal can he beat up to fix himself right before he goes back to Spidey on his hands and knees? Is there no-one else to blame for this, no-one at all—

His hands stop on his face, knuckled pressed into healing skin. There is someone else, someone who's name is ringing in his head like a warning bell; the doctor that warned him about Peter, the client. His face drops, shifting into an all-too familiar mask of hatred for someone other than himself. His mask no longer looks like a threat, or monstrous  _other._ It looks like a quest for answers, a suitable revenge.

He pulls the mask on.

Maybe he didn't know anything. Maybe he's innocent. But he had looked like a sleazeball, and Wade is going to leave no stones unturned for his baby. He needed a working teleporter and he needs it  _now._

Because, damnit, Elliot Tolliver has some questions to answer.

 

* * *

 

Peter is crying.

He's crying and he's crying, and his box of notes is open on his desk, the papers from it spread over the surface. There are scrawled notes, scribbled drawings, and a tug of paranoia that gnaws on Peter's gut; that Wade will burst in and make a scene, and that everyone will know. Everyone will know. It feels wrong, but he's resigned; his villains will know his face, his friends will see him for every busted jaw, or broken rib he's ever suffered.

Everyone will finally see him. All of him.

Every flaw, every unworthy part of him... He would be ruined. He is ruined.

Because no-one was supposed to know! Not in high-school, where he had been teased and had to look out for Aunt May. Not in college, where he had had to balance his jobs to buy her medication. Not when he finally started his own business, built it up from the dirt, and had people who looked up to him. They never stood alongside him, but they were there, and his villains...

They're different kinds of beasts. The Avengers fight the villains with motives. Saving the world by destroying it, a dumb sense of superiority, anything that could potentially be talked down. His villains just want to see his bloodied body strung up in Time Square, his head on a pike. They have motivations, sure, but everything is washed away when they see him. Gobby, with his bombs and crazy eyes, Doc Ock with his machines and experiments. What his villains want is him, dead or alive.

And it goes deeper, too; as if he doesn't have enough to worry about, or be stressed over, there's the same underlying sense of insecurity left over from school. There's the identity issues that extend past Spider-Man, and Peter Parker.

Who is he?

He's surrounded by notes from a man who shot him, he's alone, he's aloof; but who is he? Is he Spider-Man? Is he Peter Parker? Are there masks that are coloured differently from his familiar red, human-looking ones that keep him from being with other people like a normal person? 

What's wrong with him? There had to be something, anything that tells him why he's so different. Why he can't hate Deadpool, why he can't stop being Spider-Man, why he can't just push death away like everyone else does. He's the one that carries it in his chest, thick and cold, suffocating him if he tries to stand by and just let things happen. He's not a god, he's not a judge. In the eyes of the law, he shouldn't exist.

And he still does.

He doesn't want anyone to see the parts of him that are cracked and splintered, and not whole in a way that having two identities causes. Mild Peter Parker. Bold Spider-Man. They're different, and they're both so unmistakably him that it makes his head spin and his heart hurt. 

And now Wade sees that he's not a complete person. He's broken and disfigured; mentally and physically, he has nothing to offer but the shell of a hero, and the bare-bones of a person. 

And now he knows. He's got his face buried in his arms, his chest still heaving from adrenaline, and fear, and a sadness so overwhelming it makes him want to curl up like the spider he pretends to be, when his phone rings.

It's not Wade, he knows that much. It's almost funny, really, the trepidation he feels because the whole reason he got that phone was for Wade. No-one else has his number. It's a short-lived mystery, his hand inching toward the black device before he can convince himself not to. It's a bad idea, the worst he's had in a while; the Peter Parker in him tells him as much, even as the Spider-Man parts of him refuse to step down from whatever challenge this is.

"Hello?" His voice is rough, deep from crying and a panic attack that had wrenched animalistic noises from his throat.

All he can hear is heavy breathing, and the sound of metal clanging in the background. 

And then he hears something, something that makes his heart stop in his chest, and his tongue heavy in his mouth as he bites down, hard.

Because it's unmistakably Wade, and there's an urgency to him as he says, his voice tiny through the phone: "Spidey, babe, don't come here, please! I'm a big boy, just let me deal with this--"

The call cuts off.

His phone buzzes, and an address pops up.

 

* * *

 

Wade normally cases all his clients; who they are, what their motivations are, why they want what they want. How they have the money to pay him. He didn't case the good doc', though, because he had offered everything up on a silver platter.

His name is Elliot Tolliver.

He's a scientist, out of work currently. He had said something about nuclear blah, blah, blah, atomic blah, blah, blah. Wade had almost fallen asleep during their meeting.

He's mousy, unimpressive, and had worn a big, weighty coat.

There hadn't been a need to check him out, because all the facts were there, and it had honestly been hard to imagine him doing anything to sabotage anyone. He had even sounded genuinely interested in Parker's projects, all the while pointing out that he had ties to a company known for their anti-mutant policies, and pro-experimentation beliefs. Everything about Peter Parker, straight from his mouth.

He hadn't expected to find him so soon; but Tolliver had found him first, a grin warping his face in a way that screamed 'look at me! I'm evil!'. Wade hates that kind of smile with a fiery passion, and he's almost surprised that he recognises what the man looks like without the ugly coat in the way. He's not unfit, and his costume is gaudy, and he knows this guy's name. It's teetering in his brain, but he definitely knows this guy.

Maybe another mercenary?

He dodges a blow, shiny metal gleaming in the sun.

No, too sloppy.

Maybe a villain? An Avengers take-down? A Fantastic Four enemy? One of the rogues in Spidey's gallery?

He could be, Wade thinks, with his ugly outfit and bad vibes. It's like no-one ever thinks to stick with the good looks; rhinestones, glitter, a unicorn or two would really brighten this guy up. But who is he? And how did he know where to find Wade?

 ** _I know him,_** White had hissed as they were tackled from a rooftop.  _ **He's—**_

Metal strikes his head, snapping his neck. Blood fills Wade's mouth, his eyes roll back, and he doesn't get to hear the rest of White's sentence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you know who Elliot Tolliver really is, you're my favourite person
> 
> also, my chapters are getting a teeny bit shorter as i try and help other authors with their works, and i have a few mental health struggles at the moment! sorry yall :(


	10. i'm the bad guy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I'm not the damsel in distress... I'm not your girlfriend, or the frightened princess. I'm not a little bird, who needs your help to fly, nope! 'Cos I'm the bad guy."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> come get y'all juice
> 
> dont be like me and forget to back up your stories, forcing you to finish a chapter in half an hour after having an hour long meltdown over it. it was so hecking good and then it DELETED. i will be angry about this until i DIE.
> 
> click [HERE](https://xbloodrunsredx.tumblr.com/) for my tumblr!

Doctor Octopus had been the first person to ever beat Peter in a fight.

Before him, Peter faced muggers, thieves, the petty criminals that other super-heroes forgot about. He had been strong--nearly too strong--and Peter had felt every blow, every hit, every shard of glass pushing against and through his skin as he was thrown through a window. It had been agony, those first few hits; the first of many to come, and the ones that had affected him more than he would normally let anyone.

He had almost given up.

He hadn't been strong enough, he hadn't been good enough, he hadn't been Spider-Man enough. He hadn't been enough, and he almost hadn't gotten up again for another fight. If his morals hadn't reared their heads, and he had been just a little bit weaker, his mutation and his stunt as a super-hero would have been a shameful little secret he could have hidden away in the back of his closet.

He hadn't been used to fighting people with enhancements, people with minds so twisted and broken that they'd rather die than allow him to save others. They'd rather kill than not win.

It had been a wake-up call, and he had wanted to turn off his alarm.

Luckily--unluckily, in some cases--he has guilt staining his soul in a deep crimson that he had needed, and still needs, to clear. His experience leaves him with power and ammunition, and doesn't explain why he's shaking in a way he hasn't since that first fight. Since that first time, where he had trembled like a leaf, where the Doctor stood as triumphant wind.

Their second fight had been a dance.

Limbs tangled, chests heaving, moving with their actions and still in their ideals; there had been no time and too much, a contradiction that had them spinning with no release. No relief. Kicks were thrown alongside cutting words, tongues twisting lies and truths to see who would slip first. To see who would sacrifice everything to defend their own honour, who would be forced to move instead of a mutual meeting of fists.

He had still been scared, with things to lose and nothing to gain but broken bones. But he had fought; he has fought him since, but somehow it seems harder this time, with Wade on the line. The fact that he can't die is no consolation, no cure for the nerves that are ravaging his body. It means nothing because Wade can still feel pain, no matter how much he pretends it doesn't. He can lie, and lie, and lie through gritted teeth, but Peter has almost always been able to see through him. Other people might be more inclined to believe him because he heals--like that makes his suffering matter less.

Spoiler: it doesn't, and Peter wants to cry, and kick, and scream, and hate the universe for giving him everything good, and then stripping it away. He has to be cursed; he's been given so many opportunities, and what does he do with them? He wastes them.

His suit feels wrong against his skin, tight enough that he has to think about every breath. Tears threaten to soak through his mask, but he's been bled dry of them. He's beginning to think it might not actually be the costume.

Wade had said not to come.

Peter has never been good at following instructions.

He hardens himself in a way that never seems to work quite right, and ignores the temptation to jump and fall, and not bother slinging another web.

Wade needs him.

 

* * *

 

Wade is mad. He's furious, he's seething, he's filled with an anger so loud and powerful that he can't do anything but clench his teeth and try not to scream his frustrations to the world.

He wouldn't want to give the good Doctor any satisfaction, would he?

That being said, anything to make the guy shut up would be a blessing, because his voice is grating and nasally, his tentacles hitting the concrete floor with an inconsistent thwap, thwap, thwap that makes Wade want to tear his ears off. His and Ock's, because there's not enough room in this warehouse to provide adequate distance between them. And Wade wants blood,

_Blood, blood, blood, just to make him hurt! Make him hurt! Do it, dumbass!_

Wade would. He would love to, more than anything, because he's muttering to himself about Spidey, Petey, Baby-Boy, and his plans for him. Experimentation always had made his trigger finger itchy, right? There's only one thing stopping him.

Only one little thing.

Wade is trussed up like a pig, his arms and hands pulled upwards and bound in an uncomfortable prayer position behind his back. His fingertips can barely move enough to brush his upper back, and the strain is excruciating for his muscles; the rest of his body is in a similar situation, tied too tightly to move in any meaningful way. He can't even chew his hand off like he did the last few times he had been kidnapped.

_Aw, baddies do learn from their mistakes!_

All in all, it's a very inconvenient time for someone to finally restrain him properly; his baby is probably already on his way, despite Wade telling him very explicitly not to. Bless his idiotic, bleeding heart. Wade can take care of himself, like he has for most of his life, and he doesn't need Petey-Pie risking his life for no reason. Wade will come back, like he always does; unless there's a limit on his lives, he's safe.

But this man, with the shitty hair and dumb outfit, has a brand of crazy in his eyes that Wade hadn't seen before through thick sunglasses. Even before all of this, he would have been hesitant to associate with him because of that.

_Are we like a cat? Nine lives and all that fun, cursed bullshit?_

_**Focus!** _

Wade could stare at Spidey all day and all night, but he doesn't want to see him here. He's praying to a God he's never met, for reasons too hard to articulate out loud. Instead, he swears. He curses and cusses, and uses his filthy mouth to an extent that would make a nun go into cardiac arrest. "Fuck you! Fuck you, you fuckity fuck mother-fucker! Fuck!" He might as well have been talking to a brick wall, for all the reaction it gets him.

"Revenge," Doc is muttering, his hands rubbing together like he can't contain his excitement. "Against the Spider, take down the Osborn brat too, break Norman's little heart--dying, but not for long! No, not for long at all, because I have the Spider..."

"Shut up!"

_**No, let him say his plan! Then we know what to stop!** _

There's a falter to Ock's steps, his mechanical arms wobbly and unsteady. His skin is pale, washed, his body skinny.

He's dying. It's easy to see.

_**But what does that have to do with our baby?** _

"Their fault, their fault, their fault," he's still saying. "I'll make my legacy, oh I'll make a good legacy, and the Spider will be trapped. The Spider will have to live my life, and he will hate, hate, hate it. Kill Norman after the brat, make the Goblin bleed. Do to him what he did to me, make a new chain for my legacy. I'll be better than them all, I'll be so much better."

"Shut up!" Wade says again, lowly, his voice hoarse with yelling so Peter would hear him over the phone. "Shut up!"

The Doctor doesn't listen.

"Kill the Goblin too, do to him what he did to me..." He repeats. "Be Superior, be the Superior, they can't beat you this time. Killing the Spider wasn't enough, good it failed, good, good, good."

Wade wants to howl and yell, scream loud enough that Spidey will hear him from miles away, because this isn't good. This isn't good, or right, and they still have to sort things out. They still have to be better, they still have to try and love each other and be together. The Doc is crazy, and Wade knows what Peter will do for him, whether he'll heal or not. He'll heal. Peter won't.

"Be the Superior," Ock says, his mouth pulled in a grin so tight that it makes him look like a grotesque marionette. "You are the Superior."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> shorter because i wrote this in like 30-45 minutes, i feel like i just ran a marathon, pls tell me if you liked the description in the first half bc it's my pride and joy.
> 
> context: As many of you know, there are many different variations of the same characters, in and out of the comics. In this fic, I'm combining stuff from 'The Superior Spider-Man', and different instances of Doc Ock. Here, Norman is the reason that Ock's tentacles were attached to his back, and the Doc knows Spidey's secret identity.
> 
> Ock's legacy had a few different plans; his final, successful plan, was transferring his consciousness to Peter Parker's body, and putting Peter's consciousness in his own dying body (dying from wounds he's suffered over the course of his criminal career).
> 
> also im in awe of this community tbh, like wow,,,, ten chapters?? with such an amazing response??? it's such an honour to interact with you all!


	11. my shiny teeth and me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "All by myself on an uncharted island in the endless sea."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm not going to lie, i'm not very happy with this chapter.
> 
> i'm not quite sure if my writing has been affected, but i've been rather stressed with school and my doctor appointments that i find myself a little bit lacking on the inspiration and motivation departments. when i am like i am now, i find it difficult to spot when i use the same words over and over, or incorrect words/grammar for what i'm trying to say. it's hard to see stuff like when i've accidentally used all caps, anything like that. please forgive me if you see any mistakes!
> 
> though i wanted to let y'all know why this might not be my best, i know you guys probably want to read the chapter and not my sob story, so let's hop to it!

Peter's life is complicated.

It always has been; death follows him wherever he goes, striking down his friends and family, leaving him stranded with no-one to turn to. His parents, his uncle, Gwen, his aunt... and Wade, on more than one occasion. Death frightens him more than anything, though he finds very little parts of him care about his own life in comparison to others. All life is precious, and Peter will always believe that, but there's something about being a hero that means sacrifice. 

An old man, a little girl, a pregnant woman, a business man; even the criminals that Wade might have killed without Peter there to guide him down a different path, they all mean something to Peter.

And he would rather die than let their souls bear down on his conscience. 

The first time he had partnered up with Wade, he had worried for his life. Not in a meaningful way--he has super-powers, after all--but the man had looked positively ghoulish when confronting a would-be rapist, his katanas gleaming in the narrow strips of light that had managed to shine through the shaded corners of the grimy alleyway. His swords had cast shadows on his face, twisting him into the kind of monster Peter had only ever seen before in nightmares that made him wake up clutching his chest at night.

But Peter had talked and Deadpool, for all the Avengers had claimed he was unstable and bloodthirsty, had listened.

"Let the system deal with him," he remembers saying, his hand held out, his palm facing the sky in a gesture of trust. "We're not the judge, jury, and executioner."

Deadpool had scoffed, his voice dark and dangerous. Peter's spidey-sense didn't even tingle. "You're just plain naive if you think the system--"

"The system is broken," Peter had cut him off, his voice soft and soothing, Deadpool's hands faltering at how calm he was. Looking back, Peter's heart breaks at how shocked Wade had been that someone was trying to talk to him instead of kicking him down, or using force. "I know that, and that's why we exist. To inspire people who can help create a better one, and to keep the streets clean until the job is done. The streets are just as dirty if they're covered in blood, DP."

The stare-down had been nothing short of intense, neither of them wavering until Deadpool sighed, sheathing his katanas in one fluid movement that made Peter want to learn how to use swords.

The thing is, though, if Deadpool hadn't stopped when he did, Peter would have fought him; friend or no, fellow hero or no. He would have done everything short of killing the man just to protect a criminal's life.

He wonders about his morals sometimes, he really does; does standing up for the rights and life of a murderer, or rapist mean he's defending them? That he's saying their actions are right or just? He knows some people see it that way and, yeah, if Peter had to choose between saving a criminal or a six-year-old from a burning house, he would choose the kid. 

Hopefully he's never forced into that situation. He is Spider-Man after all, and that means he can save anyone. Everyone.

He's talked down suicide-jumpers, he's talked down bank robbers and shooters. He's only ever met a few people, the minority, that wouldn't listen to reason no matter what he said. His Rogues, maybe some of the more fearsome alien bounty-hunters he's crossed; they all want something he's not willing to let them have and, so, the familiar game of cat and mouse begins. 

Maybe cops n' robbers suits his profession better--he's connected to his brothers-in-blue through their outfit colouring, of course.

He's perched on a building, opposite of the address that had been sent to him. His hands are pressed flat against the cement ledge, his heels pressed tight together, his toes pointed outward. He's well-prepared, his web capsules stored in the pouch he has sewn into the lining of his suit's neck, and his biceps are already trembling with adrenaline and a strength that can't be restrained or controlled.

He listens, for any sound that could tell him what kind of person this guy is, but all there's nothing but honking horns and police-sirens a few blocks over. He tenses, ready to fling his body over the edge of the building, and concrete crumbles beneath his fingertips. 

He won't kill the guy; no, he's better than that, but his body is screaming with the same protectiveness and need for revenge that he had felt for his Uncle Ben after he had been shot, or Gwen after her neck had been snapped. The knowledge that he could kill someone with the flick of his finger will boil under his skin and make him tight with every move he makes, but he won't kill anyone.

He takes a deep breath. 

He won't kill anyone.

_He can't._

 

* * *

 

Spidey bursts in through a window, and Wade could burst into tears.

He's beautiful, his long limbs twisting in a way that shouldn't be possible, and shouldn't be hot, but it is. He's still trussed up, and Doc Ock's suit is gouging chunks from the cement floor, his robotic limbs moving in a way that's just a little too frenzied to be controlled. The man is desperate for something, and desperate men do the kind of shit that would make Wade's head spin. 

It's a flurry of movement, and Wade let's out a loud whoop when Peter kicks the Doc hard enough that teeth are being spat on the floor with a spray of blood.

The cheer dies down in his throat when Ock grins, his teeth bloodied until he looks like a vampire of cannibal.

_Is there an alternate universe where the good doctor is a vampire? A weird blood fetish fairy?_

**_Read the comics. Or a fanfic, some of them are really amazing, and there's one for literally everything._ **

_Is this directed at the readers that have fanfictions? I agree, they're all really good, but you probably shouldn't let them know that you read some of their stories. We're meant to be aloof. Who's your favourite, though?_

**_All of them._ **

"Focus!" Wade snaps, still watching the pair of enhanced beings. "This is not the time, dudes! Not cool."

To his absolute horror, Spidey snaps his head around at his words, his mask expressing more than Wade had ever thought possible. He looks scared, and then his lenses expand in a way that Wade knows means he's softening, his face gentling in a way that might be reserved just for Wade. Wade can see the exact moment that the Octopus takes advantage of Peter's lapse--which is his fault, he knows it--and knocks him square in the face with an open claw. 

If Petey's suit was made out of weaker stuff, his lenses would have shattered into his eyes, but all that happens is that he's knocked to the floor. He wheezes, and tries to push himself up until his head is slammed back into the floor, hard enough that it cracks underneath the force of Peter's skull. Wade yells, his voice cracking, his chest heaving as he strains again against his bonds.

His right arm snaps at the elbow, and he hisses.

The Doctor is talking.

"My bot didn't work," Doc Ock says, his grin still bloodied, his front tooth missing, "it didn't work--no, not at all!--this is better, we can do this better, just the two of us, you know? Just the two of us, and I can monitor the transition myself."

"Leave him alone!"

Spidey's head is slammed into the pavement again, and his mask is pulled off. There's the instinctive reaction to cover Peter's head, his face, but the guy isn't shocked. No, he's even more pleased, his grin widening ever-so slightly. Peter grabs his hand when the Doc moves to hold his face, stopping him just inches from his bruising cheek. It's a strength he shouldn't have, not when he should be dead, with his brains splattered over the floor, but he's still alive.

He really is like a bug; impossible to kill.

Just like Wade.

"Whurr?" Petey's lips are split, his cheek swelling up. Wade knows just by looking at him that there's going to be a knot the size of Europe on the back of his head. "How--why ar' you doin' this?"

It's a question Wade has as well, so he watches. He listens. The Doc doesn't answer, and only produces a slip of fabric, seemingly from thin air.

**_What is he doing? What's he doing with Petey?_ **

_Is--is that a date-rape thing?_

A cloth is being pressed against Petey's nose, covering the entirety of the bottom half of his face. "No, baby, you can fight it!" But Petey's eyes slip shut, and the bags under his eyes seem more prominent. He's tired, he's busy, and Wade had distracted him while he had been trying to fight a man who wanted him for something to do with bots, and science, and a freaky mind thing that seems more sci-fi story than anything real.

Doc Ock turns to him, Peter held limp by two of his mechanical tentacles. He sweeps into a bow, not bothered by the curses that Wade flings his way, or the way Wade is trying to break his bones and rip his limbs off to get to Peter. "Thank you, mister Deadpool," he says grandly. "For your cooperation."

"I'll kill you," Wade swears, his voice a growl. "I'll fucking murder you."

The bastard just laughs.

"I invite you to kill my body." His teeth are red, red, red. It makes Wade sick. "You'll be doing me a favour, oh you will!"

He turns on his heel, his frail-looking body supported by the clunky technology.

Wade is left alone.

 He yells into the empty air. It's his fault.

He knows it. 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks so much for all the love guys, it means a lot <3
> 
> btw, the chapter title made me cackle so much for such a pathetic reason,,, i kept using it to make fun of how Ock got his teeth knocked out.
> 
> just a reminder, my tumblr is just a click away, so feel free to message me, tell me story ideas, gush over how cute our boys are, or if you just want to be friends!
> 
> (click [HERE](https://xbloodrunsredx.tumblr.com/) for my tumblr!)


	12. requiem

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "'Cause when the villains fall, the kingdom never weeps. No one lights a candle to remember. No, no one mourns at all when they lay them down to sleep."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ANNOUNCEMENT: if you like my writing, I have entered the SpideyPool 2019 Bingo! Subscribe to my user to get notified when I start posting on July 1, or just keep an eye out for my username!

Wade had never thought he would have to thank a drug-dealer for anything, but here he is.

They're the kind of guys that he and Spidey usually pick up in alleyways, trying to sell cheap cocaine to teenagers, but now there is a skeevy guy that's probably his only hope. As it turns out, it's really hard to rip limbs off by yourself, and Wade's been struggling for at least forty minutes. Wade normally doesn't wish for different powers--that's a lie, he definitely does, all the time--but super strength would definitely be useful right around now. 

**_Yell so he knows we're here, you idiot! He's going to leave!_ **

The twenty-looking guy does look like he's about to leave. His fingers are twitching, his eyes darting from side-to-side, like the cops are going to burst out of a wall and arrest him for the drugs he quite obviously has in his pocket. He's obviously noticed the cracks in the floor, and the scattered glass on the floor, and is wary. And, really, good on him for not having a panic attack immediately.

Though, why anyone would expect anything better of New York is a mystery to him. He watches as the dude starts to pace, his knee jerking in a way that Wade is fascinated by.

Why does he want to leave again?

_Twitch._

Thirty seconds.

_Twitch._

Thirty seconds.

_Twitch._

He's almost forgotten why he's strapped up at all, his mind whiting-out in the way it normally does when he disassociates. The junkie-slash-dealer is waiting on someone; that much is evident by the wild look in his eyes, even though his pupils are almost swallowing the rest of his irises. Wade's limbs have gone numb and stiff, and he doesn't really understand what's going on.

 _The person he's waiting on is probably a cop, too,_ Yellow cackles,  _he really sold himself out to an undercover rookie or something._

"That doesn't matter," Wade tells the boxes, making sure to keep his voice low enough that he doesn't spook his soon-to-be saviour. "Our mind has deserted us one again, my dear fellows. Someone tell me what the fuck is going on, before I flip my Dolly Parton style wig."

The boxes are silent as they sift through his memories, trying to find just exactly what he's trying to block out. It's an odd feeling, one that Wade dislikes only just a little bit less than pedophiles and child abusers. It's so tangible and real, that he can almost imagine that the boxes are actual beings, or entities, rather than just his craziness talking with a few different voices. 

 _Spidey..._ Yellow hums after a few seconds.  _Petey?_

"Okay, and--"

But that's not right. That's not right at all--curse his swiss-cheese brain, and all the holes his memories are always falling into--because they're still mad at each other. That's what happened last, right? They had been angry, and upset, and broken, and both of them had had a reason to be fighting. He's pulling at straws, mentally, trying to find the right one.

 ** _We're getting worse with that,_** White's voice is quiet, sad in a way that doesn't suit the know-it-all that Wade has come to know and  ~~love~~ hate.  ** _Everything's just a haze, because our brain is ripping itself apart and trying to put it back in the right order._**

There's no answer, because it's true. He can barely remember his childhood, and even events that happened just before Weapon-X are a blur. He can't seem to hold onto anything, especially with how many times he's been shot, injured, or suffered serious head trauma. He shouldn't be forgetting this, because he hadn't suffered any trauma. What even happened, what can't he remember?

 _We jumped off a few buildings,_ Yellow reminds him.  _We've been hurt a lot recently. I'm just surprised this didn't happen sooner. You should have been more careful._

Wade ignores him."Just tell me what happened," he asks through gritted teeth. "Or at least let me see."

His face scrunches up and his breathing quickens as images roll across his mind faster than he can keep up with them, a whirlwind of pain, and loss, and fear. Not for himself, though; no, it's for a man with doe-eyes and a smile that doesn't falter at his skin. It's for a man that sacrifices his defensive position, just to make sure that Wade's okay. It's a man that Wade respects--and there are far too little people that that can apply to--and one that he needs to find.

The urge to find him out lurks beneath his skin, and it's powerful enough that Wade, for all his bulk and intimidation, is frightened. He knows that the Rogues are dangerous, and crazier than even him. He knows that it's his fault Peter let his guard slip.

He needs to ignore it, though, and focus on the guy who is waiting for any excuse to run. He wants to scream.

"Hey!" he calls out instead, rolling his eyes when the guy jumps, his limbs flailing. "Oi, you! Ratty Sweatshirt!" 

**_How did he not notice us? Are criminals getting dumber, or is this guy just an exception?_ **

_He's on drugs, dummy._

"Who--who's there?" Ratty Sweatshirt's voice is hoarse, and cracks as he struggles to answer. "Are you--you're the cops, arentcha? Oh man, oh man, I'm so sorry! I just needed the extra cash for my momma, I swear, I didn't mean nuffin by it."

Blah, blah, blah. Wade can see a bad liar when one's in front of him, and the guy is clearly on something. He's selling to afford more of whatever drug he's shooting up on, it's so obvious.

"Nah, I'm not a pig," he keeps his terminology casual and, staying true to his plan, the guy relaxes. "I'm just in a bit of a trick spot, you know? That's what you get when you trust women, amirite? I woke up and all my stuff was gone; my purse, my heels, and I'm also kind of tied up. Would you be a darling and help untie me? My shoes turn into a pumpkin at midnight, so I really have to get going."

The guy is stunned, clearly, and takes a few seconds to process what exactly was just said to him.

Finally, he speaks: "It's past midnight." Wade double-takes, and instinctively ducks down to check a watch he hasn't worn in years. His hands are still tied up, so he doesn't make it far. At least he knows that it's definitely been longer than forty minutes. "And I thought that the--the carriage turned into the pumpkin, y'know? Is that what happened? I'm so high, man, I don't even know anymore.

"You're definitely remembering it wrong," Wade says, his voice so bland and dry he almost doesn't recognise himself. "Mind helping me out, my dude?"

 

* * *

 

_He's in pain. He's slipping in and out of consciousness, his head packed tight with cotton that makes his brain buzz like it's full of static._

 

_There's cursing coming from above him, dark mutters and loud, high-pitched laughter._

 

_His arm stings, and he feels poison sliding through his body, filling his limbs with lead as he tries to lift them just a little. He can't, and panic tries to grab him, tries to hold onto him, but he's so far away that he can't do anything but lay there._

 

_Helpless._

 

_There's shifting. A person?_

 

_"Wuhhh," he tries, his brain blaring alarms through the fog. The last thing he remembers is seeing Wade. Where is Wade?_

 

_"Go to sleep, Spider-Man," a voice says. It doesn't belong to a body, Peter doesn't think, but he doesn't know. He can't open his eyes; if he did, he thinks the world would swim beneath him, a flurry of colour that moves too fast for his mind to keep up with._

 

_He listens. He sleeps._

 

* * *

 

If Wade were an insane killer with loose morals and an obsession with Spider-Man, where would he go?

 _Wow, you really are a terrible person,_ Yellow marvels, _you share so many of your traits with infamous criminal master-minds, and Spidey still wants to bone you! Well done._

Okay, so maybe he is a little bit similar to a few bad-guys. Just a tiny, little bit. But that still doesn't answer the question; where would he go? Wade is well used to tracking people down, but they had tended to be a slicker kind of evil. Business suits, plans, logic, someone that was always easy to hunt down just because their plotting was so easy to follow. They needed something, they went and got it. They wanted something accomplished, they went and did it.

Or, at the very least, they would send hench-men to completely bungle the task before stepping up themselves, with a cheap quip locked and loaded.

**_Like, 'If you want something done right, you have to do it yourself'?_ **

"Exactly."

He could run around the city like a chicken with it's head chopped off, or he could try and track crazy. Crazy is a funny thing, because it can't be contained, or trapped; Wade is insane, he's a lunatic, and even his mind has splinters where the boxes filter out, and he can't help but see them as real. They're real to him, and they're not real to other people, and he needs to find the Doc's boxes.

What does he have in him? What filters out? Who would know?

He needs to find Petey. Time is of the essence, here, he knows that more than anything else, but he can't rush. It's a delicate line that h has to walk, a tight-rope that's stretched over spikes and jagged edges, and he's carrying Peter. If he slips, he dies, and he might not remember when he wakes up. If he slips, Peter dies, and he won't wake up. He can't wake up once Wade's slipped, and it's not fair.

 _We can get him from Death, can't we?_ Yellow asks, and even his voice isn't as loud and obnoxious as it normally is.  _She can't keep him from us. We won't let her._

Wade would cross hell and high water for Peter, but it depends on what Doctor Octopus will do. Now that the boxes keep playing it in flashes for him, he can see the way that he made sure to press his hand softly to Petey's nose with the rag, made sure to hold him carefully with two of his tentacles supporting him. When Peter stopped fighting back, his touches became almost reverent. Awed. Greedy.

Peter doesn't belong to anyone. Not Wade, not the Avengers, and certainly not his villains. 

 ** _Maybe the other villains will know,_** White says lightly,  _ **do we have anyone on speed-dial?**_

He doesn't. Wade had cut ties with most of his more underhanded contacts early on, deleting their numbers and ignoring their calls. He had wanted to make good with the big leagues; the Four, the Avengers, the Defenders. He didn't want to let himself fall back into bad habits, and he wasn't about to give himself any reason to go back into the life he had led before.

Weasel might.

 _No! We can't wait! Please, we have to save him!_ Wade's heard Yellow beg only a handful of times. He's not surprised or ashamed to admit that it's mostly happened because of Spidey. he's tempted to listen, but he knows it's a bad idea. He knows he needs to be methodical.  _You can't just leave him. You just can't, you know he's suffering! You already know, so don't waste times on maybes!_

**_Those maybes could save his life._ **

Wade has the gun pressed to his head before he even knows that it's in his hand. 

He drops it immediately, like it's burning metal. He can't do that, not here, not now. He needs to help Spidey. He needs to help Peter.

He can save him. He knows he can.

 

* * *

 

_It's so loud, and it's so quiet._

 

_It's everything and nothing, nothing and everything, and his head is swimming. There are numbers and spiders that crawl over the edge of his brain, warnings and whispers that reverberate deep in his bones._

 

_He knows it's not right, he knows he needs to wake up, but he's so tired. There's something in him, making him sluggish, and he needs to wake up._

 

_'Wake up!' The spiders chant, waving their legs and clicking their pincers. 'You need to wake up!'_

 

_Peter's trying, he really is. He's doing his best, he's forcing his eyes open, but there's a hushing and someone's sliding them closed again. His head hurts, and the spiders are scuttling away from the light. He's whining, high in his throat, and he feels like a little boy again. He feels like he has a fever, and the brightness shining through his skull is actually Aunt May with a kind smile and a cool cloth._

 

_He relaxes into it._

 

* * *

 

Wade needs a lead. He needs something, anything.

He needs someone with eyes and ears in New York, someone who knows everything that's going on. There needs to be someone. Who? Whowhowhowhowho?

It's early in the morning now. Spidey's been gone for hours. Hours, and hours. 

Wade feels like he's going insane, because there's not a single strand of hair, or a little splatter of blood to lead him to Peter. What is there? How does a crazy person get so good at being smart? Maybe he's doing it accidentally, but maybe he's doing it to taunt Wade.

Wade hasn't slept, and he's too tired. He needs to sleep. He can't keep his eyes open.

 

* * *

 

_'Wake up!'_

 

_His body feels different, and not entirely his own. His bones ache, deeper than his injuries he got as Spider-Man could ever have reached him, and his head is pained. He hurts, his body aching all over. He's missing something and he's gained something, and he feels weak. Weaker than he's felt in years, like his strength has been drained from his body with a straw._

 

_'Wake up!"_

 

_He feels closer to reality than he did before, where flashes of colour and uncertainty reigned supreme._

 

_'Wake up!"_

 

_He knows he needs to listen, and he feels his fingers twitch, the movement making his joints scream in protest._

 

_'Wake up!'_

 

His eyes snap open.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Make sure you remember to check out my SpideyPool Bingo works from July 1 onwards! If any of the beautiful artists that read this story would like to collaborate with me for this, click [HERE](https://xbloodrunsredx.tumblr.com/) for my tumblr and shoot me a message!
> 
> love you all, so make sure you take care of yourselves for me!


	13. get down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You, you said that I tricked ya, ‘cause I, I didn't look like my profile picture."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> guys my life is falling apart pls im so tired also @CallingToTheVoid ily and i hope you like it!!!

"So?" Wade asks, stifling his yawn behind a gloved hand. "Can you find something?"

Chris shoots him an exasperated look, disguised as a poorly executed irritated glare, still tapping away furiously at the keyboard in front of her. "Dude, I've been here for literally five seconds. Where do you want me to search, again?" Wade can only describe her tone as fond, in a round-about sort of way, even though he's only known her for around five minutes. "Weasel said you needed help finding someone?"

Wade bites at the inside of his cheek, hoping his mask will hide the tick that surfaces at the thought of yet another person knowing about Peter and his spidery secret. Her expression softens slightly, which shouldn't be possible considering Wade already considers her a saint for not cursing him out yet. She sweeps the longer side of her blonde hair behind her ear, toying with the cartilage there in what could only be her own nervous tick.

_**Compliment her so she doesn't leave! She has nice hair!** _

And her hair _is_ nice, half-shaven and wind-swept in a way that, in a way that doesn't quite frame her soft demeanour rather than make it more apparent, suits her. She doesn't seem like the type to leave because Wade doesn't obey social niceties, so he keeps his mouth shut lest he scare her off instead.

"I mean, I wasn't really looking at street signs?" He offers, his voice strained and weak, and her shoulders slump. It's not an 'I'm going to kick you in the shins because you've irritated me', but a more parental, 'Timmy, I thought I told you not to take that cookie' way. It's nice, and Wade can easily see why Weasel would keep her around, even though she doesn't fit his grunge-homeless aesthetic.

She's just _nice_.

 _Nice people don't exist,_ Yellow warns him.  _Watch your kneecaps, it's always the short ones._

Wade brushes him off.

"It was a red building. It's kind of near that Chinese-slash-Mexican cuisine place, if that helps."

Her fingers are a flurry after that, pulling up a search-page and typing his description in. She hums as she works, her voice raising with every flick of her finger over the mouse, and lowering every time she presses the enter key. Within seconds (that feel more like hours), she has a place pulled up on her screen that strikes a familiar chord in Wade's mind. He's nodding before she can even start talking, and she just quirks a brow.

He hides another yawn.

His healing factor will be able to keep him awake, creating fires in his brain to keep it exactly as it's supposed to be. That doesn't stop fatigue from settling in his bones like the ghost of sadness, or something similar that he can't quite put his finger on. Wade can't tell the difference, not now. Everything is real, in a blurry, hazy vision of what the world isn't supposed to be. Something pulses behind his eyes, and he closes them against the pain that will be throbbing until he lets himself stop for a moment and breathe.

He inhales experimentally, and finds that his breath isn't getting caught and trapped in his lungs anymore. 

"Can you tell me if you saw any cameras, 'Pool?" Chris asks, her voice soft like she's afraid of startling him. People have sounded like that before, fearful of his weapons and admittedly poor self-restraint. She has concern tainting that, though, and it makes a sob crawl up his throat, threatening to choke him. He doesn't deserve that, he doesn't deserve her pity or help. "Any homes with private security, anything like that?"

He's the reason Peter's gone.

"No," his vocal chords move without his permission. "I can't--my memory sucks."

He says it like it's a joke, and it's not funny. She laughs anyway, her voice lilting in a way that makes him think she might actually apologise to him if he poured coffee on her. It's actually calming, speculating wildly on what her personality is like with people who aren't insane.

_Kneecaps!_

She turns back to her task, her brow furrowed in concentration as she tries to find something he can't remember.

Stupid, stupid, stupid! If he had only remembered a tiny, tiny thing, something she could use, this would move so much faster. She's bypassing codes and ignoring Facebook notifications almost as fast as she talks.

She gestures her way through an animated story, her eyes never leaving the screen, and he appreciates the effort she's making to make him feel more secure. She switches tracks halfway through, with hardly a stumble over her words. A man with more of a mind would be lost, but Wade follows along easily enough as she explains what she's doing. "I'm juts trying to pull up security footage from all the buildings surrounding the warehouse, so we can track any of his movements through the city. If we can't find him, we'll be able to narrow it down, at least."

He wants to have an active role in this, but there isn't much he can do. She's clearly in her element, multiple pages open on her computer in a way that Wade barely knows how to comprehend, let alone try and do himself. God, he's such an old man; he doesn't even know how to hack things. What a pathetic excuse for a mercenary he makes.

 _Dude, we have mad skillz, don't diss us,_ Yellow whines, his voice more grating than ever now that they have a plan.  _And I meant that with the 'z', just so you know._

Wade sighs.

"Are you nearly done yet?" he asks, and a smile tugs at her lips. She shakes her head, a movement that dislodges the locks tucked behind her ear. She moves to fix it again, before shooting him a quick, sweet look. 

She almost reminds him of Peter, in how... _unbothered_ she is by his quirks. He scoffs, brushing the thought from his brain before it can settle and grow like mould. She's just good at making people like her, that doesn't make her like Spidey.

"Why don't you have a rest," she suggests, and she sounds so much like a mother that it's hard to refuse. He tries to resist the urge, but he's draped over a beanbag before he knows it, spiders running through his mind. "You'll help me better when you're more awake."

He's fading, fast. "Just--" another yawn "--just wake me up if you find anything."

"Cross my heart."

 

* * *

 

The first thing Peter notices is the pain.

It runs through his blood, infecting him from the inside out, and he's burning. A fire tramples through his body, burning everything in its path, and he tries to scream, seize up, do anything to relieve the crushing agony...

He can't.

There's nothing he can do, because his bones feel fragile and brittle, and moving makes him feel like they'll snap if he tries anything. Any movement, any shifting on his part, and he'll fall apart. He's sure of it. His body doesn't feel like his own, and he feels like an intruder; his skin is a layer of dirt, his blood a poison that seeps through the rest of his body. It's not him, it's not his, and all he can see is a clean, white ceiling.

If he didn't know--from Wade, of course--what death is like, he would have been terrified.

He's still scared, but if he's alive, he has a chance. A chance to do what, he doesn't know. 

Something attached to his back shifts, and he bites back a scream. It'll probably shatter his bones and jaw.

There's something else crawling in his brain--that's not his own--and it lurks in the shadows, crazy and dark. It doesn't make sense, whispering nonsense, and he knows what it is. He knows, he knows; it's  _insanity,_ tangible and real, in his head and he doesn't think it'll leave. The temptation to scream grows and, this time, he doesn't waste time giving in.

 

* * *

 

Chris wakes him, her victorious grin still nicer than any other smile he normally sees in Weasel's friends. 

"Osborn," she says, her eyes glittering with weariness and well-deserved pride. "He's there, in the laboratories. Your boy hasn't left, though, and Doctor Octopus hasn't left the building yet either. Both of the Osborns are out at some gala, so you're probably in the clear if you try and go in."

Wade wants to ask more questions, but there's no time. Dopinder drives him, his familiar smile not soothing Wade's nerves in the slightest. The Doc had had Peter for so long, there was no telling what he could have done; or the lengths he would go to in order to get rid of Peter as an enemy, or obstruction in whatever plan he had concocted now. He has a sinking feeling in his stomach, on that tells him he's too late.

Getting in his easy enough. His guns are big, and the people that work there are pussies; nothing like the calm, collected Stark workers whenever he tries and fails to break in there. It's easy to see the difference in some people, Wade thinks, based on what their employees are like. Petey's employees had been curious, and his secretary had been polite. It makes him wish he had seen that connection sooner.

Seeing Peter is hard, though. In a shitty attempt at a secret lab, he's standing there, too clean and calm, and doesn't seem to know what's going on at all. Wade has experience with crazy, but there's a vacancy that doesn't belong to Peter, not his Baby-Boy, and his lips are a flat line until he sees Wade. Then his mouth stretches grotesquely, his perfect teeth shining under sterile lights.

His grin is large, and nothing short of _sadistic_. It's the kind of smile that Wade would have expected to see on the Peter he had thought had existed; the experimenter, the twisted, the evil. It's ugly, and it's not Peter.

It's not Spider-Man. He's not Spider-Man.

Wade's heart constricts, and he finds himself at a crossroad.

What is he supposed to do now?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> pls review its nearly midnight im tiRed


	14. a whole lot worse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Every year for mother’s day, I steal my mother’s purse.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i keep reading over my chapters and noticing all the mistakes and hasty jumps in the plot smh, i cant wait until i go back and edit them all.
> 
> also, i got bangs which is important to mention for no particular reason.

Peter has beautiful eyes.

They're large, a unique honey-brown that sparkles when the sun hits it just right. There's a new element to his eyes, though, one that makes Wade stiffen; it's just a glint, just a hard edge where, before, there had only been softness, but it's enough to make Wade flinch away. There's a tense moment before Peter's smile turns saccharine sweet, his eyes flicking to the prone form of Doctor Octopus before he bounds over to Wade.

He's unsteady--almost as if he's drunk, or high--but he flexes the muscles under his suit to do a wonky back-flip. His strength is still there, and there's the instinctive agility that Wade would be able to see if he were blindfolded. It's not the mind, but Peter's body; telling him where to place his feet to avoid falling, soothing any anxiety over doing a tricky stunt. It's something he's familiar with, but he feels like he's seeing it for the first time. It's not practised, not like he's used to it being.

Peter takes another step forward, and Wade takes a step back.

 ** _This... this isn't right,_** White sounds almost fearful, and Wade understands. There hasn't been much to be afraid of since Weapon-X, and Peter certainly never struck him as the type to be intimidating. But now, with his back straightened carefully, and his muscles tensing and relaxing, Wade truly feels a flash of fear. Maybe not for him, but definitely for Peter.  ** _What happened?_**

Wade is almost dying to find out.

"Is this another hypnosis sitch, babe?" Wade keeps his eyes trained on Peter, who looks deceptively innocent; his lashes are long and he's fidgeting with his fingers in a way that looks purposeful. He's never seen Spidey do that before, and he's watched him a lot. "I don't want to hurt you, sweet-cheeks, but I need you to snap out of it and tell me what's going on, alright? Can you do that for me, sweetie?"

Doctor Octopus groans from the table he's draped over, and Wade ignores him with little effort. 

Peter giggles, and cracks his knuckles. It's not in a menacing way, per se, more like he's testing something. He reaches a pleasing conclusion, based on the look plastered over his face like a cheap mask. Like it's not meant to be there, and it doesn't suit the lines and creases that make up the stunning visage that is  _Peter._ Peter's scar stretches in a way that makes Wade fight the urge to bury his face in his hands.

"No..." Wade snaps back to attention at Petey's voice, captured like a bird in a golden cage. "No, I'm perfectly fine. Thank you, Mr Deadpool, for assisting me in my project, your service truly was invaluable. I'm quite pleased that you didn't kill him--me. My other plan didn't quite work out, see, and I think this worked even better than that." Peter clenches his hands into a fist, seemingly enraptured with the small action. "Yes, I definitely am Superior. Finally Superior, finally the better of us. And he's suffering, you know? Exactly as I had to. Exactly, exactly, exactly..."

He trails off, his mutters turning to small grumbles. He swipes at his back, like he's trying to catch something, and Wade's boxes pipe up.

Yellow sounds meek, and White is frustrated, seeking out answers. Wade has a sinking feeling, deep in his heart, that he knows what's going on. The boxes rise up louder this time, shouting over each other to make him hear their theories and ideas. Shouting why he's wrong, refusing to understand that, maybe, Wade could be a little bit right. Just once, as much as he wishes he wasn't, he has no doubt.

Still, he tries to keep an open mind.

"Cloning? Evil twin? C'mon, babe, don't tell me that you're actually an assassin that lost his memory years ago before accidentally assuming a fake identity, and you have to go on a journey of self-discovery with Samuel L. Jackson."

Peter--or, rather, Not-Peter--hardly reacts to Wade's taunts and jokes. It's a terrifying prospect, really. A grinning villain with no time to try and kill Wade for his teasing? A villain with a plan. An important one.

 _He can't be a villain,_ Yellow whines.  _He's our baby! He's not a villain, or a monster, or whatever you want to call it, he's still him!_

"Doctor?" Wade tries, his voice barely more than a whisper.

Peter's head immediately whips around to meet Wade's eyes, though his smile is still sickly sweet. It's so disgustingly fake, and created by someone who doesn't have much experience smiling for genuine purposes."No," Not-Peter says, though his eyes shine in a way that definitely means  _yes._ "It's me. I'm Spider-Man, Mr Deadpool. I'm the Superior Spider-Man."

Wade's eyes find themselves drawn to Doctor Octopus' body. It's trembling, slightly, like the cold of the lab is seeping through paper-thin skin. He looks away.

**_Peter._ **

_Baby._

"Oh no," says Wade. It feels like an understatement. "Oh, _fuck_ no."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so short but ill add stuff on later sOrry :((((


	15. you gotta die sometime

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “At least death means I won’t be scared about dying again.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i have two go-to songs when i'm writing; 'it's hard to be the bard' from something rotten, and 'hurricane' from hamilton. tell me some of your songs!
> 
> also i almost cried while writing this so pls make sure you're safe mentally before reading

_Pain_.

_It's all that's running through Peter's mind, it's all that's weighing on his brittle bones until he fears that they might explode inward into some kind of twisted, seeking shrapnel. It'll rip through his muscles and organs, and he wonders--idly, without any basis--if this is his actual origin story. Man, he regrets being a dick to Iron-Man now, with his current predicament. At least he has something in common with one of his favourite heroes; they've both been kidnapped by terrorists, and they've both experienced the wetness crawling up their throats._

_The wetness that Peter suspects might be blood._

_He hears Wade, he hears his voice and he tries to call out but all that comes out is a spluttering cough that makes him flinch away from himself._

_He doesn't understand. He should be healing; his body should be stitching itself together, his nerves rearranging themselves in a painstakingly slow way that sends cramps ripping through his body._

_That's the question of the day, isn't it? His body, his mind, his very soul feels cheap and plastic, like a scuffed figurine from a dollar store. There's a chip somewhere in his polish that he doesn't know how to get rid of, and it makes him feel queasy. He's sea-sick, and from what? The rocking of his brain, back and forth, his soul trying to find a good grip on his body. This body. It's only a body, because it certainly doesn't feel like his own._

_Pain, pain, pain, pain, pain._

  _That might be all he knows, as misery perverts his every good memory and even Wade's voice is tainted with thoughts of gunfire and drunken slurs._

_There's an ache in his cheek, one that doesn't exist anymore, but it should. It should exist, it should be there, but it isn't; his teeth are rotten, he can feel the dull throb of them in his mouth, but his cheek feels no stiffness from his surgery and the implant. His cheekbone feels raw and exposed, like the skin has been slit to accommodate the open air, but that's all._

_He's talking._

_It's not him, not in the traditional sense--his tongue is still dead-weight in his mouth, his jaw so creaky he fears moving it--but he can hear his voice. It's higher than he's used to, like the person using his voice is pulling on unused strings to draw it up higher, but it's definitely his voice._

_"...I'm the Superior Spider-Man."_

_But that's not right! Peter's the only Spider-Man, and he's lying down! Isn't he?_

_No, he is! He is lying down, and he is Spider-Man. He has to be; if he isn't, then who would he be? He knows who he is. He's Peter Benjamin Parker. He grew up with Aunt May. He became Spider-Man when he was fifteen._

_He loves Deadpool. Deadpool's name is Wade._

_His favourite colour is blue._

_He doesn't like the rain._

_These are things that only he would know. He's Peter. He's Parker. He sued to get bullied, he likes science. He likes cats better than dogs, and he thinks that the world could be good if people just tried a little harder to look for better options. He loves jumping from buildings, he likes showing off in front of Wade, he likes the feeling he gets when saving people. He likes putting people behind bars._

_He hears his laugh. It's grating and harsh, and he wonders if it always is._

_He's Spider-Man. Of course he is._

_Right?_

 

* * *

  

The Doctor stands there, his teeth sparkling in Peter's mouth. He's wearing Peter's skin like it's a cheap rubber suit, and it makes bile rise in Wade's throat. It looks like Peter. _He_ looks like Peter. There's so something inherently and inhumanely wrong about playing God; Wade does it all the time (well, not on purpose, but he definitely has died just to test the limits of Fate's patience), but this is purposeful.

And he dragged Peter into it. 

Wade's eyes flick to the table behind Peter's body, at Ock's body. It's still, twitching silently and breathing with a hacking wet sound that Wade knows intimately. It's the loud, horrible sound of death. He also knows one other thing:

No matter whose body that is, the person inside it is Peter. His Peter. The Peter that always forgave--forgives--Wade whenever he does anything wrong, who always tries to teach people to do better, who inspires people to be as beautiful as they can be. The Peter that makes Wade feel beautiful, even with his skin that's riddled with scars and gouges, even with his dodgy past and dodgier memory.

Even with the boxes.

 _Kill him,_ Yellow says, voice dark. There's a faint warble to the words that bounce around Wade's skull, and if he weren't so confused with everything that's going on he  _would._ He wants to kill, the itch niggling its way under his skin, spreading a traitorous warmth that pools behind his eyes. He has no choice, no option; and, really, this can't have been what Peter meant when he said  _'there's always something wrong with a choice that ends with death.'_

He kills Peter's body, and he dies. His mind is trapped in a breathing corpse, and Wade knows,  _knows,_ that he doesn't have the strength to keep up with failing organs and shattered bones. He could stab Ock's body, but he would be killing everything that made Peter himself; every thought, idea, beautiful image of the world... snuffed out by Wade's hand? It wouldn't accomplish anything. It wouldn't stop Ock from whatever he's planning, it wouldn't save Peter.

He has a motto, when it comes to bad-guys.

_WWSMD?_

What would Spider-Man do? It's saved countless of petty criminals, and helped him find the motivation to file his taxes for the first time in eight years. The only problem is that he knows exactly what Peter would do. What lengths he would go to in order to save people, in order to rescue the world at large. This is a sweet little ritual, and Peter's the sacrificial lamb walking straight into the knives.

He can't kill Peter.

 ** _We already tried,_** White tries to rationalise, but his tone falls flat.  ** _Maybe if we died enough we could forget. We could be a hero and just forget about Peter, and Spider-Man, all of them. Maybe we'd be allowed to die._**

 _And wind up being tortured forever,_ White sounds like he's almost considering it, and a sound of outrage lodges itself in Wade's throat. He just makes a choking sound, and Not-Peter cocks his head. 

"Are you alright, little cockroach?" he asks, his eyes wide and his smile soft. "I suppose I know what's happening in that brain of yours. But I won't experience it any longer--this brain is healthy, and the memories--" his nostrils flare and his eyes roll into the back of his head. Wade remains silent, his tongue tucked firmly between his teeth. Any wrong move, any move at all, and Not-Peter could kill himself. Or Peter-Peter. "--you should see some of the feelings he has for you, I think you would have a particularly lovely reaction."

There's not a difference anymore, he doesn't think.

Not-Peter is definitely more lucid in this body, and Wade takes a step forward. Maybe he can argue with Peter's brain. Not Ock's consciousness. 

 ** _How does this even work?_** White sounds despairing, ever the one to search for a solution, or logic. No that there's much of that to be found in New York.  ** _How are we supposed to save anyone if we don't know how to science?_**

Wade doesn't know. 

Peter's the smart one, and he's dying on an operation table. He's dying, and Wade's not there with him. 

His mind bubbles over, the boxes chattering in one ear as Not-Peter continues to talk. He needs to figure out a way, a good way that doesn't end with death, just like Peter had taught him. 

 _Peter would want him dead before letting him kill other people!_ Yellow hisses,  _why don't you do the only thing you're good at, for once? There's always going to be another fucking loophole that gets Peter back in there, so hurry up already! Jesus._

**_Don't! We don't know what will happen!_ **

"Honestly," Not-Peter is still fucking talking, his voice high and nasally in a way that's not normal. It's harder to see him as Peter, Wade's vision flooding a horrible, horrible red. "I think I might be falling a little bit in love with you at this fool's little feelings, and all the lovey-dovey plans he had for you. Too bad he's going to be dead for what he did to me, right? Maybe you and I could--"

Wade pulls his gun.

Not-Peter hasn't had much practice with his spidey-sense, Wade thinks. It's dispassionate for only a second, his mind that of a cold-blooded killer for just a moment before he drops the gun. Peter--no, Not-Peter, he scolds himself--has his eyes blown wide and glossy, his mouth open slightly. Time is frozen in a still snapshot of misery before Not-Peter looks down, pressing the heel of his hand into his stomach in a wasted effort to staunch the bleeding. 

He takes one step back, and then another. He falls to his knees, his hair mussed and his eyes scared. Wade rushes to his side and, in cruel irony, has trouble trying to remember that this isn't Peter.

Not-Peter is dying, and Peter-Peter is dying... and Wade has to wonder, he has to wonder why death always follow him. Is it punishment for not dying himself? Is it a warning, a reminder? He's an awful person, but he doesn't know what he's ever done to deserve this. Any of this. If he didn't know better--and he really doesn't know better--he would assume this is hell. That he's dead and this is his torture.

"I was--I was supposed to be better," Peter--Not-Peter--whispers. He looks so much more like Peter when he's standing on death's doorstep. Wade only knows that because he's sent both of them there. "You stole my revenge, you took that from me--"

Wade shushes him, a large hand covering the majority of Not-Peter's forehead. The boxes are silent, obviously somewhat aware in the role they're playing in the collapse of his mind. He sits there, soaked in Peter's blood. It's not for the first time, and he wants to die. He wants to take the gun to his own head again, and blow it off in a useless attempt to forget everything.

He's crying, his mask abandoned somewhere in the endless puddle of blood. He sits until he hears shuffling behind him. He tries to ignore it. Peter's dead, and it's all his fault. 

_Peter!_

 

* * *

 

_Wade's hitting his face. Wait, no he's not. No, Wade is tapping at his cheek lightly, and Peter edges away, away, away..._

 

And he wakes. Like a dog to its master's call, he blinks himself awake.

His eyes burn from the glare of the lights, until Wade's face is looming over his, effectively shading him. His mask is off, his face shadowed but his eyes a startling, gleaming blue. Peter smiles at them, his bones grinding against each other as he reaches a hand up. "I don't know how he managed to kidnap both of us feeling like this," he jokes, and lets his arm fall limp. "I've only been like this for a few hours and I'm already ready to jump off a bridge."

Wade tries to smile, his forehead crumpling in on itself in his efforts, but Peter imagines that it's real. It makes this whole situation easier. He has something he needs to ask, something that won't form in his throat until, through some kind of miracle, it does.

"Kill me," he begs, and his cheeks are wet, his vision so blurry that he can't even see Wade in all his unconventional beauty. "Please, Wade, you have to--he has a plan, he always does, you have to stop him--"

Wade's shaking his head, and Peter chokes on a sob. He needs this, the  _world_ needs this. Why can't Wade understand that? Why can't he just see things from Peter's point of view for once, and just listen to him? The darkness that's rotting his brain whispers to his rational thought, the illness that pervades the organ corroding at everything he is as a person.  _He was so willing to kill you in the beginning,_ it says, cutting and cruel.  _But now you want it and he won't? How selfish._

"He's dead," Wade sounds like he wants to die. "I swear I didn't mean to, the boxes, my head--I just lost myself--I wanted to save you. I wanted to help you, but I killed your body and I'm so, so sorry."

He's crying, Peter realises.

And maybe Peter's the one being selfish. Maybe he's asking because he can feel himself slipping away, and losing himself to something else that makes him feel dirty and disgusting. He's not Spider-Man anymore, he's a monster. He's losing his mind, letting himself be weak to the prowling demons of Doctor Octopus' memories. His feelings; the anger, the pain, the disgust, the urge to kill, kill,  _kill._ He's turning into the villain, sympathising more than he ever did before. Even worse than sympathising, he can understand. He understands him now, in a way he never wanted to understand a murderer.

He never wanted to be a murderer, but here he is; with the memories of one, and the urge still tickling at his mind.

"I love you, Petey," Wade says, and Peter wonders how. How can he love Peter when he's wearing the skin of an old, dying villain? How can he push aside the way Peter looks just to offer him that small comfort in his last moments? "I can't kill you, please don't make me kill you..."

"I love you," Peter cries. "I forgive you, I trust you, but--"

But he can't die in pain. He can't die with the mind of a killer, he can't help anyone by staying alive. He doesn't want to spend half-an-hour choking on his own blood, or having Wade cry over him. They need to kill Ock's body so no-one else can use it or Peter. So no-one can find out what happened here, or try and replicate what Ock did. So Peter gets closure, knowing he died doing what he loved. 

_Helping people._

Wade isn't doing anything and, if Peter could scream, he would. "You almost did it before," he babbles, and his mind is escaping him, his words slurring. "Just do it now, just go through with it, I'm  _begging_ you."

Peter doesn't want to die. He doesn't want to go through this, he had wanted to get married, and adopt a little baby (and a teenager, and a little cat named Spoodey), and experience a vacation with a family. He had wanted a family. He has Wade, but he can't help but wish that he had had more time. Time. He wants more time, he wants someone to give him the opportunity to experience everything he never will.

"Find someone else, Wade," he says. "You deserve to be in love."

His body is dead. Ock is dead. Peter is dead.  _He's not alive anymore._ He's a man of science but, well, he can always hope for heaven. He can always dream of a paradise where Wade joins him and they can spend the rest of eternity together. He tries to keep his eyes open, looking at Wade for the last time. Because Wade won't be able to follow him where he's going. 

It's okay. Maybe Aunt May and Uncle Ben will be there. 

_It's not okay, but he needs to stay strong so Wade won't hate himself for this later._

He waits for something, anything, and--

A knife is pressed to Peter's throat, the sharpened metal kissing sweaty skin. He swallows, his eyes squeezing shut as more tears slip out to trickle down his forehead as his head is tilted back. His throat is bared, and Peter's never trusted anyone the way he trusts Wade now, in this moment. Lips are pressed to his forehead, and his doesn't get a chance to take another breath before the knife is cutting through his flesh.

He thinks of Wade's eyes. They're his favourite colour.

He smiles.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IM SO SORRY. DID I SURPRISE YOU THO???
> 
> so the reasons my chapters have been eh recently is because of the spideypoolbingo which i am SO excited for. I have around five finished fics of varying lengths, and two more drafts,,, in any case, i think you guys will love them! i'm making them into an ABC collection when I start posting (with each fic title being one or two words that will be one letter of the alphabet) so be ready! love you guys, and remember to stay tuned! 
> 
> if you'd like to feature as a character in any of them, message me or leave a comment! i'm also hoping find an artist to work with but we'll have to wait and see what fate spins for me :P


	16. way down hadestown

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Nobody knows where that old train goes, those who go they don’t come back. They go way down Hadestown."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I almost don't want to publish this.
> 
> You can find me writing for the SpideyPool Bingo. My first work will be titled 'Apophis'; keep an eye out for it (and kudos if you can guess which square it was based on)! I'll miss interacting with you guys on this :(
> 
> last chance to click [HERE](https://xbloodrunsredx.tumblr.com/) for my tumblr!

Peter isn't ignorant about what death is.

He's a hero, a person who jumps at any chance to find himself on that threshold. He knows people--only a few--who have died and come back, with haunted eyes and tales. They mostly contradict, of course, which means that death appears differently for everyone. Many an argument has been started when Wade starts talking about his... relationship with Death around Wolverine.

Though, whether Wade is a reliable source is another problem entirely.

To Peter, very little has changed. He's still awake, and Wade is still sobbing over him. One difference, however, is the little girl standing beside Wade. Her eyes are brown, and her dark hair is twisted into tight braids. She has a teddy-bear clutched in her arms, one that's stained with blood. Peter shoots up when he realises, his eyes fixed on her and her toy. She seems unbothered, her hand steady when she reaches out for him. He takes it without thinking, staring down at his own hand.

It's smooth, devoid of wrinkles or scars. It's not Doctor Octopus' skin, and it's a child's hand. He's a child again; for some reason, the revelation isn't as surprising as he thinks it should be.

"I didn't expect to see you so soon, Peter Parker," the little girl says, her tone bland and her eyes blank. If she weren't moving and talking, he might have mistaken her for a corpse. "I expect that the sisters will be very displeased with this."

Wade is still crying over an empty table, tears slipping between his fingers to splatter on the metal table. 

"The sisters?" Peter asks, almost tripping over when she tugs him closer. He's much shorter than her, barely reaching up to her elbows, and he knows she can't be older than seven. "Who are you? Are you Death? Or are you just dead? How old am I? Why am I even younger in the first place? Am I dead too?" Even his voice is tiny, his voice echoing with a faint lisp that had plagued him throughout his early childhood.

She laughs, and it sounds like a death-rattle if Peter's ever heard one. She sounds like she's on her deathbed as they speak; it's disconcerting to say in the least, given how young she is, and how she should sound as a child. Children sound like sunshine, and happiness, everything good in the world. Though she is most likely older than him in some sense and aspects, he's still filled with unease.

The girl laughs, and blood trickles down her forehead.

"The sisters are Fate and Destiny," she tells him, flicking the blood away like it's little more than an irritation. "Fate creates opportunity for Destiny, and Destiny creates a path for Fate to work her magic. And I am Death, though this isn't my body. It's one that you created, Peter, like everyone does when they meet me. As for how old you are, you are the age you were when your parents left to get on that plane, all those years ago."

Peter thinks. He had been just four, then, hadn't he?

"Oh," he would cringe at his rather simple and poor choice of words if he weren't so baffled. "What do you look like to Wade?"

He's embarrassed, but the question slipped out of his mouth without his permission. He wouldn't put it past Death to do some weird, voodoo magic on him so he couldn't not tell her things. She seems amused enough by his question, anyway, and just takes a deep breath. Her body shifts in a way that should be horrifying; tan skin melting away into pale bones, her face growing gaunt before his very eyes.

Soon enough, she's a skeleton before him, clad in a long, black dress.

With extremely large breasts. Huh. He raises an eyebrow at her, and she laughs once more--making Peter flinch again--before hunching over into the little girl from before. "Your Wade has quite the interesting brain," she tells him. There's a strange tone to her voice, a syllable said just a tad too forceful, and Peter remembers another thing about Wade and Death's relationship.

They had been together. Like, together-together.

"I don't--I didn't mean to, y'know, steal him away from you," he says, fiddling with his short, fat fingers. "I'm sorry if that's what happened. He doesn't really like to talk about it, even with me."

She raises a hand, an eyebrow raised alongside it, and he shuts up.

"Wade and I," she begins, "have and have had a strange relationship. We are connected, but he never remains in my kingdom. I can extend his stay for a while, but he will always return. We never could have worked. I am... glad that you have found each other. I apologise if I seem strange in my emotions--I do not feel them easily, and they are quite difficult to articulate, I find."

Peter sits on the floor. There's more blood there, slick and slippery, but he can hardly bring himself to care. "You're not the only one. I think I messed this up by not being honest with what's been going on."

She sits beside him.

"Perhaps."

"You know, I never really wanted to die," he tells her. "I know that not many people do, but some would probably think differently given my line of work. Even I thought, for a really, really long time, that I wouldn't mind it, just so I could see the people I've lost. I just... didn't want to listen to Wade crying while I died slowly, and in pain. I didn't mean to upset the sisters--do _you_ think I made the right decision?"

"Perhaps." She sighs, and rests her head on her palm. "That's why we're here, right? Because you do not want to have left. You want to go back. For him?"

She seems genuinely curious as to what his answer would be. He thinks for a moment, hesitant to answer without pondering the question first.

"No," he says, finally. "I wouldn't want to live in a world without Wade, I don't think, but I have a lot of things to live for. The people I save need me, my company needs me, and I think I might have people who just want me to live with them. God, I've really been an ignorant douche."

She hums.

"If you had answered yes, I would have sent you away," she tells him, and blood trickles from her nose. "I have no love for lies, Peter Parker, and I hold no respect for men that only hold one thing of value in their lives. The ability to see where you have something to live for is commendable, I think."

That makes sense. "Who's the little girl?" He asks when the silence grows too oppressive. "I know I've seen her before, I just don't know... where."

"A little girl that got hit by a get-away car," she tells him softly. "Her hero was Spider-Man, and her favourite toy was August, her teddy-bear. She died as you did, which I think is just another reason for me. If you had been alive, you would have kept her alive, and you would have seen the news about her. It was unfortunate. Wade taught me a great many things, and his love for children is only one of them. It's regrettable, that you could have lived and stopped me from meeting with her for a great many years to come."

"Wait, does that mean--"

"I can't send her back by herself." She shakes her head, blood flinging from her skin to the floor. "More children would come in her stead, and there would be no-one willing to stop the root of the problem. I won't touch you, Peter Parker," she presses a soft kiss to his forehead. "Not until I can touch Wade. You are safe from me, a feat many have died whilst trying to accomplish. Do you have anything to say for yourself?"

"I see why Wade likes you so much," he smiles, wrapping his arms around her hesitantly. After a moment, she hugs him back. Wade is still crying in the background, and Peter tries not to flinch at the sound as it grows almost overwhelming. "You really are amazing."

"Speaking of the man you love, he wants to meet with me now," she pulls away, with what can only be a blush staining her cheeks. "Most likely to talk about you. He can get a bit annoying when he's in love."

Peter smiles at her once more, before she snaps her fingers with a deafening click that sends Peter hurtling through time and space.

 

* * *

 

Wade wants to cradle Peter's limp body in his arms.

He wants to take it back, to cry, to scream and hurl knives at someone, but all he can do is cry over him. His blood is on Wade, sinking into his skin, sticking to his suit, and he feels disgusting. He feels horrible, like a monster, and a criminal, and everything Peter had made him think he wasn't. And now, there are two bodies; they're proof. After all the love Peter had given him, all of the guidance, and the understanding, and he had thrown it away. All he can do is cry, though, and try to hold back every urge that tells him to die, die die--

Wait.

**_Wait._ **

_Wait._

"We know Death, right?" He does, after all, and she probably owes him a favour or two, a little somethin'-somethin' for being such a good boy while in her kingdom. "Think we can convince her to give us back our someone-someone?"

**_Probably not, she probably really hates us. And, also, there are rules, ones you know that she hates to break._ **

"I can't hear you. Nyeh!" Wade ignores the bodies as he walks out, with the kind of willful ignorance that has kept him alive throughout his life. Or, well, less dead than he normally is. "We need to go to Chris' house, and then go back to our place so we actually own more weapons than a butter knife. And so I can get changed into something that will charm the socks off of our lovely skeletal babe."

  _Why would Chris do that? Why would Death do that? As far as we know, they hate you and everything you stand for._

 “Because they love us, duh!”

*

 

"I need you to kill me," he says, holding the butter knife out to Chris. "Like, just keep stabbing me in the heart every two minutes or so."

She blinks at him. And then again. She stares up at him, crossing her arms over her chest like she's going to try and be stern.

"Why would I do that? I mean, I don't want to say no," she starts. "Because that might come off as mean, and that's probably not what you need right now. But I don't think I feel comfortable killing you at the moment. Sorry. I can text you if I change my mind, if you want? I’m also very curious to know how you got my butter knife."

"Found it in my thigh. Also, you know I can't die, right? So killing me is kind of like the purge, and it's totally consequence free."

"I know. I don't want to kill you, though."

"Alright, okay, just checking, just checking," he paces. "Look, I'm kind of very much in love, and I really need to talk to my ex who lives in Hel, so it's kind of a big deal that I die. You can come back to my place and eat all my leftover tacos, and use one of my pretty knives, not your one. I promised myself ages ago that I would drag him back if it finally killed me, and I can't break my promise. Not now.”

She narrows her eyes, before they (predictably) soften, and she nods her head. "I like love, so I hope this doesn't backfire. Plus, I don’t think a butter knife would work."

”It would.”

”How do you even know—“

"It probably will backfire, too!" He drags her out of the house. “But that’s the beauty of life.”

**_I hate you, and everything you make us do. All that's going to happen is you're going to forget Peter, and we're going to never mourn him. You really want that to happen? You really want us to forget about everything? We're probably the only ones who know who he was, and you're going to risk that for a fantasy._ **

Chris scowls, and he forgets about forgetting about Peter, and how he’s still drenched in his blood. He thinks about his smile, and how he had said that he forgave him, and that he was so, so beautiful. Inside and out. He had killed Peter’s mind and body.

Hopefully he can still save his soul.

 

* * *

 

The first breath that Peter takes hurts.

It burns at his lungs, tugging at his heartstrings. He bolts upright, his chest heaving, his breathing ragged as life is forced into his body. It feels unnatural, for a moment, like his blood is curdling, but then it settles like it had always been there. He looks at his hands, clad with red-and-blue gloves, and buries his head in them. He's alive. He's okay, he's fine, he's not _dead_.

"Wade?" His voice hurts, but he doesn't care. It doesn't matter, not when his heart is thrumming in  _his_ chest, and words are coming from  _his_ mouth. "Wade, are you here?"

There's no answer; and, as Peter looks around, he realises one thing.

He's alone.

For the first time in what feels like forever, he's alone. There's no-one waiting for him, no-one looking for him, because he's dead. He had been dead and de-masked, and everyone would have known if someone had come in.

Maybe he's lucky after all.

He could leave. He could disappear, with no-one hunting him down, or trying to hurt him ever again. He thinks of the little girl, who he had been too busy dying to save, and he knows that he can't. He knows he needs to find Wade, and get rid of any of the footage of him being tugged around with his mask off. He has so much to do, but first things are first.

_Wade._

Maybe Weasel will know where to find him.

 

*

 

Knocking feels weird. Formal, for their relationship, like it doesn't quite fit what they are. Though, they still have to talk about exactly what they are to each other. He waits for a minute, resting his forehead against the cool wood while listening to the scuffling from inside. He pulls back as the door is unlatched, the doorknob turned, and Wade steps into the door-frame.

They stare at each other.

“Petey?” Wade finally asks, stepping closer like he's afraid Peter will disappear into the wind. “Spidey?”

He's been crying. Drinking. There's a red stain on his shirt, and Peter knows what else he's been up to. 

“Yeah,” Peter is empty, the lying and fighting, the running and  _dying_ hollowing out his insides and leaving him aching. “I’m so sorry, Wade--“

Before he can finish his sentence, Wade is striding closer, confident footsteps betraying the emotion on his bare face. Peter doesn’t have time to be shocked by Wade’s lips on his before he’s melting into scarred arms.

“I fucking love you, Petey-Spidey,” Wade murmurs when he finally pulls away. “I still can’t believe—shit, I feel like an idiot. Death told me I was too late. She told me, and I was trying to get you back, I promise-”

“Don’t feel bad, Wade, please,” Peter pulls him down for another kiss. “You were the first person I’ve ever told. And I’m glad it’s you.”

Wade searches his face, blue eyes swimming with a kind of uncertainty that Peter never would have thought to associate with the infamous Deadpool. He must find what he’s searching for, because his arms are wrapping around Peter tighter and tighter, his back hunched and his face buried in the crook of Peter’s neck. "I killed you," he says, his voice muffled, thick with unshed tears. "I'm so fucking sorry, Petey, I never wanted to--to hurt you like that."

Peter pulls away, his eyes wandering across Wade's face before leaning in for a slow, chaste kiss. "You could never hurt me," he tells him when they break apart, the words too true and vulnerable for comfort. "I love you, Wade, and I was a coward for not telling you sooner."

“I never thought you would like me like this,” Wade’s voice is deathly quiet, his lips moving against Peter’s own. “With my face, and my admittedly work-in-progress type personality. Along with what I did to you, and how perfect you are...”

Peter doesn’t laugh, even with the obvious inflection of a joke that taints Wade’s words. “I’ve always liked you,” he admits. "And I always thought that you were too good for me."

The look on Wade’s face when he pulls back makes Peter feel like he might have a heart after all.

"I think that I should maybe go," a girl with blonde hair says, stepping out from behind Wade. "You guys are so cute by the way--is that weird to say? You know what, I'm just leaving before I make an even worse impression." She squeezes past them, and Peter sees her flashing Wade a thumbs up out of the corner of his eyes.

"Should I be jealous?" He teases, rising onto his tip-toes to get closer to Wade's face. "Girls in the apartment, and after I just died too! For shame."

Wade barks out a laugh, one that has a grin spreading across Peter's face as well.

"Never," he holds Peter's face in his hands. "And you're acting way too casual about the death thing, too. Should you to to therapy? That's probably rational, right? I've died a shit-ton of times, but I'm kind of a nutcase so I'm not the best frame of reference."

"Probably." Peter pulls him down again. "But I think that we're about to be way too busy to go anytime soon."

Wade pushes the door shut, and Peter holds him tight. Now that he has him, he's never going to let him go.

After all, even Death won't do them part.

*

_The End._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love you guys so much.
> 
> Writing this ending was so emotional for me, only because I don't want this fic to be finally finished and over, and have to say goodbye to you guys. Writing this was such a special experience, especially as my first story for the ship and even for Comic!Deadpool and Spidey. The response and support was utterly amazing, and I always smiled at every comment you guys left, and screamed every time I hit a milestone; fifty bookmarks, 100 kudos, 200 kudos... Every single time made me squeal because of how dear this is to me, and how much you guys are enjoying a story by a novice writer.
> 
> I honestly can't thank you guys enough; your comments made me want to work my ass off to deliver this story on schedule, and it kept developing as you guys inspired me. Please look out for my later fics that will be posted from 1/7/19 onward, because I love interacting with you guys so much!
> 
> Much love,
> 
> Rach <3


	17. say my name

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So, Lydia, don't end yourself  
> Defend yourself  
> Daddy is the one you should maim  
> Together we'll exterminate, assassinate!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THE MOMENT YOU'VE BEEN WAITING FOR:
> 
> THE SEQUEL TO PETER PARKER, EVIL INCARNATE WILL BE AVAILABLE ON AO3 ON THE 20TH OF MARCH (ACT) - IF YOU WANT TO GET THE CHAPTER A WEEK IN ADVANCE, YOU WILL FIND MY PATREON [HERE](https://patreon.com/bloodrunsred)

_Teaser Excerpt_

* * *

 

"So, how are things between you and Wade?"

 _Tick,_ the clock in the corner says.  _Tick._

Peter takes a moment to pause, turning the question over in his head, before coming to a hesitant answer. "Good,"  _smiles and laughter and Wade saying 'I love you, baby boy'._ "Sometimes I wonder if--if I should be more afraid of him than I am. Sometimes... I think I might be broken, or ruined, for not being afraid."  _Nightmares of screaming and crying and Wade who sounds so, so angry._ "But then when I  _am_ scared of him--not really scared, just antsy after nightmares--I feel so disgusting for putting him through that."

 _Tick._ It's getting on Peter's nerves, his hearing delicate enough that he can hear the inner workings of the clock, the shift and grind of gears that accompanies the grind of machinery. _Tick._

The doctor--Avenger sanctioned and a SHIELD psychologist--nods thoughtfully. "It's a peculiar situation, I think we both can appreciate that." He takes a moment to glance at his notes. "If you and your partner were, for lack of a better term, _normal_ , I'd ask you to consider the benefits to breaking your relationship off. I can't help but think that that won't solve any of your recurring issues, though; what do you think?"

_Tick._

"I don't want to break up with Wade," Peter says immediately. "It wasn't his fault--well it was--and I should have supported him better. I knew he was protective, I knew about his past, I knew about almost everything and I still let him feel like there was no other option. Look, it's been a year and I just want to know why I can't just get over it."

 _Tick_.

"That's a strong conclusion to come to; that you're both at fault. I have two questions for you: does he agree with you both being at fault? And do you feel like it's your responsibility to get over what has arguably been one of the most traumatising things you've ever gone through?"

_Tick._

_Uncle Ben, dead; shot through the heart. Dead, dead, dead: Peter's fault?_

_Tick._

Peter laughs. "No. No, of course not. He's just... strange like that, like people have always told him that he's to blame for everything and it's just second nature now."

_Tick._

"I understand. Now before we finish, would you say what we've been doing in therapy is helping you?"

_Tick._

Peter doesn't hesitate. "Yes."

_Tick._

"Good," the doctor looks down at his watch before standing, dusting off his crisp slacks. "Well I suppose that's something for next time. Thank you for your time, Spider-Man. Let me know when you would like to see me again." He hands a small, wrapped gift to Peter, who smooths down his mask before taking it. It's pretty and dainty, wrapped in yellow paper. "Just a gift for your progress."

"Thank you," Peter says, feeling a sudden rush of emotion build up in his chest. "For everything... it means a lot."

"Goodbye, Spider-Man," the doctor says, but he smiles. Peter appreciates his professionalism, and shoots him a finger gun before leaping out of the window, package tightly in hand as he free-falls for just a minute, startling birds and walking citizens alike with a big woop that comes from somewhere deep in his gut. He needs to get home soon; his and Wade's anniversary is coming up, and the sap is insisting they make it a week-long celebration. Peter--deep down--secretly likes the idea. A lot. 

He shoots a web just in the nick of time, and pulls himself up high, high, high, before letting the web strand go in favour of admiring the package, helplessly curious about what his doctor could have possibly given him.

He's a strange man, but Peter can't deny the results; besides, he doesn't know an intelligent person that isn't strange, himself included. 

Peter shoots another web, almost falls: doesn't.

They've talked a lot about his past, and it feels kind of good, like he's tried to bandage a wound by himself but it needed stitches and he's finally gotten them done. ( _Stitches, face, burning burning burning, hurt, it's all His fault_ ).

Maybe the memories aren't always good but-

The parcel explodes.

And Peter is gone, falling further and further than ever before, his panicked breathing helping him inhale a lungful of toxic-green smoke that makes his vision go blurry and his mind swim--like when he was little and he fell into the pool before he learned to swim. He's high up and afraid, but also tired: like how he felt when he woke up from death for the first--and last time--and he wonders if she'll stick true to her promise and let him pick his organs up from off the ground when he goes splat.

Peter's mind is teeming, confusing, and he climbs the spiderweb behind his eyes, watching fractals of memories disappear beyond his grasp and he thinks he must have passed out: he'll be hitting the ground soon.

 

* * *

 

_Summary_

 

* * *

 

Peter is used to fighting. He's used to seeing danger at every turn, using his powers for the greater good of New York. But now... his mind is shattered, and he is grasping at memories that don't make sense, memories that turn friends into foes and safety into something sinister.

He doesn't remember much, but he remembers Deadpool's mask, a bullet, and pain: he thinks they might hate each other.

There are two evil forces in the work as Peter struggles with new conditioning and old instincts, and they'll have him rip the city apart before he tears himself in two from the inside out.

 

* * *

 

**_Stay tuned for Wade Wilson, The Enemy brought by yours truly! Check notes for details and be sure to comment any theories, ideas, or questions you have!_ **

**_EDIT: the first chapter will be released in a few short hours on my Patreon, where you will be able to view it for 3$ a month. Check the top note for my link!_ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SPECIAL THANKS TO ANON: While all of your support means the world to me, the person who pushed me over the edge into the realm of a sequel is the person that left me this ask:
> 
> 'So I'm rereading Peter Parker Evil Incarnate and honestly every time I read it I get brought back to when I refreshed ao3 every like, 5 minutes because "ooh it might be updated :D" I love your writing style so much!!! (Also, rereading the comments has me screeching) anyway, I love your works so much! Hope you have a great day!' 
> 
> Thanks so much for your support, even this long after the story was published. It means so much <3 If you're new to the story, welcome to our little family! Wade Wilson, The Enemy will be released before you know it.


End file.
